


Lord of the Uruloki

by Chi-chi-chimaera (gestalt1)



Series: Lord of the Uruloki [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Dark Bilbo, Dragons, More characters to be added as they appear - Freeform, Multi, POV Multiple, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-02-07 11:39:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 71,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1897623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gestalt1/pseuds/Chi-chi-chimaera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Corruption of the Ring. Bilbo Baggins has mastered the One Ring and rules in Erebor. He has brokered a peace with Smaug, sung the souls of reborn dragons into Arda, and won a great battle against Elves and Men and Orcs. But this is merely the beginning of what he has planned for Middle-Earth. He will have an utter and lasting peace, whatever the means he needs to get it. With dragons and Nazgul he must forge his empire, before the White Council gathers the strength to bring him down and dash his hopes for good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter One - In which we learn why it's a bad idea to give a sword a name like Elf's Death, Saruman is Saruman, and strange Nazgul lying in caves distributing swords is no basis for a system of government.

The thick foul smoke of the mountain choked him with its stink. The plains outside had reeked with it but here, at the heart of Orodruin, the fumes crept down his throat like something alive. Every breath was a struggle. The heat was like nothing he had ever felt. It made him sweat like a Man, pant like a Man. Strands of his hair were sticking to his skin. The touch of evil seemed to fill the hall around him, and even Vilya on his finger was not eager to try its power against it. 

They had come to the overlook of Sammath Naur. Far below, the molten stone moved and steamed with active malice. Great magic had been worked here in this elemental forge, and the echoes could still be felt now; likely would still be able to be felt for a thousand years to come. He turned to the mortal King who shadowed his footsteps. 

“Come!” He cried. “Cast it into the fire!”

Isildur was holding the plain-banded ring between fore-finger and thumb, turning it back and forth to catch the light. Even now, knowing what it was and all it meant, all it could do, the malice it held was a quiet thing, hiding in the gold like a serpent in the grass. He did not like to have it so close. But they had come so far and done more than he’d had any hope for, and now only one small task yet remained to cast down Sauron and all his works and end the font of all evil in Middle-Earth. 

“Destroy it!” he shouted, when the Man hesitated. Was it not simple enough? Had he not seen the evils that Ring brought? 

The Man smiled. It was, he realised with growing horror, an evil look. “No,” Isildur-King muttered, and before he could act, move to check him, he had turned and was striding away, back towards the foul sky and less foul air. 

Elrond returned to awareness of the world staring up at the dome of night, illuminated by the tender light of the stars. He let out a slow breath, banishing the dream from his thoughts. There was no need to question why that memory was preying on his mind; it had been a moment in which many horrors could have been prevented, not least those most recent losses beneath the shadow of the Lonely Mountain. He rose from the soft grass and surveyed their camp. They had stopped merely to rest the horses, taking their own brief respite in shifts. If this was a retreat, at least it was an orderly one, and they were not pursued. 

As refreshed as any elf could hope to be under the circumstances, he had certain duties to attend to. Awakening the energies of Vilya with a whispered word, Elrond made his way through the camp to the tents they had swiftly raised to house the wounded overnight. Those who could not be fitted upon the wagons had needed to be carried, but that was a task no elf would shirk. Now those stretchers lay upon the ground, and those they bore lay in the stupors of healing, or shivering from the effort of suppressing their pain. The army’s stocks of healing herbs had been used up days ago. 

The last time Elrond had seen wounds like this, he reflected, had been three thousand years ago upon the blasted plains of Mordor. Dragon fire held a spark of the Maiars’ power; it clung to flesh and was not easily extinguished. Many had died from it, their armour fusing to their skin and their lungs burning to char when they could inhale naught but flame. Worse though were those who survived. Though nerves would be sundered in the immediate aftermath, and elven nature meant no need to fear infection of the open skin, the process of healing could not easily be predicted. For some those nerves grew back too quickly, when all was still raw. He had known some to be driven from their minds in their agony until at last the burden became enough to drive their spirits to the Halls of Mandos. Where even the worst burns of natural fire might be healed in a mere decade or so, dragon burns might take centuries, and would result in scars that elves were never meant to bear. 

King Thranduil had scarred thus. Elrond had tended to him in the aftermath, as he had tended to so many others. He remembered the hints of pale bone that flashed white from beneath the black char of his face, the shrivelled, crisped muscle of his neck and shoulder, the bubbled, melted fat and skin of his arm and chest. It had healed, even that burned horror which would have spelt the death of Man or Dwarf, but even a thousand years later, when Thranduil had still been willing to let Elrond see beneath the glamour he’d woven, it had left him blind in one eye and half his face a monstrosity of twisted tissue. 

If caught from the wrong angle like that, Thranduil had looked like an orc, although of course Elrond would never be cruel enough to tell him so. 

And now there were nearly a hundred like him, to a greater or lesser degree. Nearly a hundred elves who would never return to the perfect forms Eru had made them. Evil had touched them and would mark them forever, and not all of them would be as skilled with glamours as King Thranduil had been. Some might make the choice to go early to the Halls, and he could not truly blame them. 

He moved amongst them now, letting loose the healing energies of Vilya to ease pain, to help the flow of blood, to spur on healing. It was tiring work spiritually, if not physically, but he would never do less than put his all into it. 

“My lord Elrond?” 

He turned to see a somewhat familiar face – a red-haired, female Silvan elf. She had been one of Prince – no, King now – Legolas Thranduillion’s advisors at the battle. Tauriel. 

“Yes?” He said, his hands not yet leaving the back of his current charge, who had ducked the dragon’s fire, but not low enough. 

“It’s the King, my lord,” she said. “There’s something not right.”

Elrond did not know much of her, but he had seen enough of her character to know she would not disturb him for something that was not a serious matter. He rose, tucking Vilya’s magic away once more, and followed her out of the tent. 

King Legolas was resting not far away, under a sparse and wiry pine, watched over by a small contingent of the Lasgalen guard. At first nothing appeared to be amiss, but on approach it soon became apparent that his rest was not the normal elven ease, but marred by something feverish, with glassy eyes and beading sweat. He held his healing stump tucked close into his chest, cradling it with his remaining hand. Elrond frowned, bending to lay a hand upon the young elf’s forehead, his senses questing out to find the source of his pain. 

“His arm,” he said softly, drawing his hand back with a hiss. Yes, something was most certainly wrong here. A darkness lay upon Legolas Thranduillion that should not be. A darkness emanating from his wound, which had before this been well on its way to healing over. He lifted the stump carefully, easing it away from Legolas’ body and noting the tenseness in his muscles. Unwrapping the bandages that lay upon the wound, both he and Tauriel let out startled breaths of shock. 

Dark lines of infection swept up the elven-king’s forearm, the healing skin now reddened and swollen. It was not hot to the touch, as the malady of a Man, but deathly cold instead. This was nothing natural, even had there existed a rot that would take its hold in elven flesh. 

“This is an infection of the spirit,” Elrond said, feeling the stirrings of fear in his heart. “The work of dark magic.”

“What can be done?” Tauriel asked. Her hands were balled into fists, her knuckles white. 

“His own strength and will must battle this,” Elrond replied grimly. “But I will give him what aid I can. He is strong, and determined. His chances are better than most.” 

“How could this happen!”

“The sword the Halfling bears... it was once forged in Gondolin, many thousands of years ago. Now it has known the taint of the One Ring, and no doubt the dark thing that creature became gave it some fell name. I can only suppose it had not thus been named before – now its nature has been perverted to some dark end. It is lucky we of the Council were able to keep him from the greater battle, else I fear we should be seeing many more wounds like this.”

This new evil only made him more certain that they should not have left the field but continued to press on. Even with what little, unprepared strength they had been able to bring to bear there was nothing to be gained by leaving black things to fester. He had been the one crossing blades with that quick, lithe little being and he had felt it tiring. Surely if they had persevered... even just to kill it, and leave the dragon for later... But he had been overruled in the vote by the Istari, and he was certainly willing to admit that they were wise in ways that even he did not fully appreciate at all times. Particularly not the strange, brown-robed one. 

“I will keep a close watch on him,” he said, re-wrapping Legolas’ wound and rising. “Have hope, Tauriel. There is always hope, as long as Good remains in Middle-Earth.”

As he left for the others who needed his skills though, Elrond reflected that he was no longer certain that that was true.

\----

“I warned you Gandalf that no good would come of associating with these _Halflings_ ,” Saruman told him. Gandalf nodded, but in truth he was barely listening. He was well aware of his own mistakes. His own blindness. Overconfidence. He had been so focused on the greater picture of the workings of Middle-Earth that he had failed to pay attention to the evidence of his own senses. He had known that _something_ was wrong, some strange quirk of behaviour that Bilbo had picked up in his journey through the goblin tunnels, he had even known that there had been a ring, but he had never suspected... 

He had been a fool! Why had he not at least asked the merest question? Asked to see the thing? If he had only _thought._..! But then, what if he _had_ asked, and then picked it up... One of the Istari under the sway of the Ring would be an evil even greater than that which now sat in the heart of Erebor. 

_You cannot dwell on the past._ The voice of the Lady Galadriel was, as ever, a balm. She stood, graceful and beautiful and unchanging, seemingly untouched by the horrors of these past days. _There is no-one here who has not erred. The future is clouded, and always in motion. This could not have been foreseen._

 _By my actions a good and gentle soul has been corrupted by evil,_ Gandalf replied. _And now the kindest thing I can do for him is to kill him._

“At least now we know the location of the Master Ring,” Saruman was saying. “Once this Halfling creature has been slain, we will be able to put its power to proper use!”

“No!” Lord Elrond said, joining their conversation for the first time that evening. “If we have learned nothing else from this, at least we have learned that the Ring must _not_ be used! It must be destroyed, as it should have been destroyed three thousand years ago!”

“The evidence of a mortal’s fall is hardly a warning for us,” Saruman replied, with a scorn that Gandalf felt was unwarranted. “Our will is far stronger. Just think of the potential if Sauron’s powers could be used for the betterment of Good!” 

“The Halfling spoke similarly,” Galadriel said. “I imagine he began with the best of intentions. He may have fallen to its evil more swiftly but make no mistake; even would it take centuries so would we fall too. Do not forget who was once Sauron’s master. There is only one of us who has not seen _his_ power to turn the purest will to the foulest end, for he was thrown down before Lord Elrond’s birth, but his shadow remains in the world. The Ring must be destroyed.”

“All very well and good,” Radagast put in. Gandalf had never seen him appear more harried. Radagast was at heart a gentle soul, not meant for war, and it had tried him sorely to lend his power to theirs, first at Dol Guldur, and then at Erebor. At least this retreat would offer him some respite. “We’re getting rather ahead aren’t we? We lost! The Ring won! What do we do now?”

“We gather our strength!” Saruman replied. Gandalf felt suddenly mistrustful of his eagerness. There had been something rather unusual about his contributions when they vied against the strength of the One, although he had as yet not the slightest clue what that might be. It had been Ages of Arda since last they had all joined their power together. Oft had they spoken, but the Istari were not _meant_ to use their strength without great cause. Perhaps they were simply unfamiliar with one another. Perhaps practise would make them better, more able to defeat this threat. 

If only he had not left the Company of Erebor at the eaves of Mirkwood! Sauron had not been so strong then that together they could not drive him out, and a little longer would not have helped him. If he had remained, he might have seen the change in Bilbo and divined its meaning. He could have mediated whatever meeting they had with the elves of Eryn Lasgalen and perhaps... perhaps much bloodshed could have been averted. All because he had not _looked._

“Gandalf!” Saruman snapped. 

“Hmmm?” he mumbled, rousing himself from his dour thoughts. 

“Perhaps it is time for the Heir of Isildur to go South,” Saruman said. “And reunite the Kingdoms of Men. Their strength may leave something to be desired, but we will need every advantage possible to throw down this evil.”

“The Heir of Isildur is ten years old!” Elrond replied. “A fine King he would make!”

“Then he will be of age in a mere ten years,” Saruman said. “Are you not fostering him, Lord Elrond? Ten years in which to groom him for the role he must play. It is a heavy burden to place on one so young, yes, but we will all have burdens to bear in the coming years. Ten years to muster our strength. Ten years to build our forces.”

“I fear it will not be so easy,” Gandalf forced himself to say. If only his grievous error _could_ be corrected that swiftly! “The Stewards of Gondor have ruled for nine hundred years, and will not be eager to relinquish the Kingdom to a Northern Ranger.”

“Then we must _persuade_ them to see reason,” Saruman said impatiently. “Perhaps it _will_ take more than a mere ten years, but we must be ready to seize any opportunity we are given. You must travel to Gondor and begin to lay the seeds for this child’s ascension. I will work on the Horse-lords.”

“I shall visit Lord Círdan in Lindon,” Lady Galadriel said. “Enough of our people may yet remain in Middle-Earth that together we can face this last threat and see it ended. So too must Lothlorien begin to consider the art of war for the first time in three thousand years.” 

Their gazes turned gradually to Radagast. “I’m afraid I really don’t know what kind of assistance I can be?” he said. 

There was a short space of considered silence. Then a thought occurred. “You know Beorn at least,” Gandalf said, trying to sound encouraging. “He commands his own small army in his bears. And Gwaihir and his people roost in the mountains that face the Carrock. They may be proud folk with their own concerns, but they will not refuse all aid where it is dearly needed.”

“The Eagles!” Radagast exclaimed, sounding far happier. “Yes, that sounds splendid! I will speak to the Eagles.”

“Then it is decided,” Saruman said. “We shall each of us depart upon our separate tasks, and make our preparations for the war that will come.”

“I at least must remain for a time,” Lord Elrond said. “King Legolas requires my knowledge of the healing arts.”

“Do what you must to aid him and the others who were wounded,” Lady Galadriel told him. “Enough pain and death has been visited upon our people; it will ease my heart to know you are here with them.”

With that the meeting of the White Council was concluded. Gandalf remained in the tent that had been set aside for them for a while longer, considering the scope of what had now been laid before them. There would be war, yes, war such as there had not been since the days of the Last Alliance at the ending of the Second Age, a time when the Istari had not even yet been sent to Middle-Earth. Theirs was to have been a role of watching, of guiding. Not outright battle. Not pitting fearful strength against fearful strength. 

Yet there was no-one to blame for this calamity but himself.

\----

A thing of magic had returned to the Holy Crags. Horm Gods’-Honoured had seen it in a dream, three nights before, and announced it to the clan at the morning meal after she had talked to Murûk-Chief and gained his agreement. In the dream, she told them, she had seen a great flame in the east standing on a plain at the foot of a mountain, and the flame had scoured the earth and the sky, sending shadows and stars scurrying away. Then a circle of swords rose up from the ground, nine in number, and the flame grasped one and pulled it forth before casting it from him so that it crossed the arc of the heavens like a darting bird, falling at last amongst the rocks of the Holy Crags. Horm said it was a sign that a great spirit had awoken, perhaps even the Great Eye returned at last, and that they had sent a servant into the holy places for the clans to seek their will. 

It was not spoken, but Maukûrz could feel the excitement from everyone for the rest of the day as they went about their usual tasks. It had been many years since they had felt the touch of the gods upon the land, many years since the King of the Honoured Dead had ruled the north-lands and united them under the name of Angmar. The tarks had crushed their army and driven the King away and there had been no god to stop them. There was no strongest leader, and the clans fought amongst themselves. The Chiefs always fought, it was what burned in their blood, but even the greatest uruk was still an uruk, not a god or a great spirit, and so the people were divided. 

But _this_ meant that perhaps the gods had begun to lay their hands upon the world again. That they would come and walk amongst their people, receive their worship, sit the thrones that were their due. Maukûrz thought about this, out on the hunt in the hills. Perhaps blessed by the news, his luck was good and the stones from his sling found the skulls of a fair half dozen rabbits despite the lateness of the season. Snow was on the ground, heaped in the shadows of stones where sun could not get it, not that the Wizard’s-Eye was strong here where it crept close down to the horizon, scarce seen in winter even if in summer welcome darkness fled. The cold wan light meant the people could hunt in the day when the animals moved, rather than dig in burrows at night like ferrets. Maukûrz pitied his southern cousins in that much. 

He cleaned his kills quick, slitting their warm little bellies with his stone knife, eating the still-steaming innards as his hunter’s due. Oft-reused string soon bound tiny rabbit feet together, and with the carcasses slung over his shoulder Maukûrz made his way back to the clan’s camp, thinking pleasantly of the slowly steaming stew the meat would make. 

“Official meeting tonight,” Naudur told him when he gave her the rabbits. She was pretty even if she was small as she was named, with a wide snaggle-toothed grin and blunted nose, twice-broken over the years. She was wiry and strong and she had many scars even though she was not one of the warriors – but Maukûrz knew he’d never have a chance with any of the warriors, and he just might with Naudur. “Gonna’ be a lottery, to see who they send up to the Holy Crags.” 

More good news! “Maybe my luck’ll hold,” he said, nudging her shoulder. She swiped at him, but in a friendly way, and her claws didn’t score him deep. 

“Don’t see you as no holy messenger,” she said, laughing. 

“Holy as anyone else!” he told her. “Hey, maybe if I get lucky there, I’ll get lucky somewhere else as well Naudur?”

“Maybe you will, but you won’t!” 

He grinned at her, and left her to her work. Well that was something! Not a no anyway, even if it had been a joke. It wouldn’t be long now until the gathering, he thought, glancing up at the sky. Dusk was starting to turn to true dark, and the camp with its ramshackle huts was lit now only by the light of the cooking fires. Maukûrz had one more thing to do before then. 

The shrine was in the shallow cave at the rear of the camp where the sun could not pollute it. There was the sign of the Great Eye, forged in metal and oft-wetted with sacrificial blood, and before it the circle of nine stones, the sacred number, each carved with one of the symbols of the Honoured Dead. To either side were the shrines of the other gods of fire and shadow; to the left the Horned Walkers, to the right the Living Stone. Kneeling, Maukûrz reached for the shallow bowl of red clay, marking the Eye upon his bare chest, and then prostrated himself to pray for luck. 

When the blare of the horn called the clan together, Maukûrz was ready. He crouched with the other hunters a short distance away from the centre of the wide circle of the meeting place, opposite the warriors who, in his opinion, had become lazy and prideful with only other orcs to fight. Tarks, with their godless ways and birch-bark pale skin, were far more frightening than any of the other clans. Luckily there were none this far north – even luckier, there had never been elves here, and elves were the most terrifying of all. 

In the circle’s centre Horm stood with the lynx-skin bag of stones, with Murûk there ready to pick out one of the carved rocks that would narrow down the lottery to one of the groups watching the ceremony. Koth War-Caller started up the beat on his drum to call the attention of the gods down upon the draw, twirling the carved wooden tipper between his fingers. The pounding seemed to Maukûrz to match that of his heart – it seemed a good sign. Murûk-Chief reached into the bag. 

“Hunters,” the Chief called out, and Maukûrz drew in an excited breath. This was one step closer to being chosen.

There were too many amongst his work-kin for the drawing of straws, so instead Horm Gods’-Honoured brought forth the second bag of stones, this of bear-hide. Amongst the many pale river rocks, there was one of a lucky black, and the orc who picked it would be their chosen messenger. She brought the bag over to them, and Maukûrz kicked and shoved his way into the rough line that was being formed. The beat of the drum continued. He could feel it pulsing under his skin, and he could almost think the eyes of the gods were on him even now. 

When he reached into the mouth of the bag, he met Horm’s golden eyes and shivered. His claws rasped against the stones, and sweating, he grabbed one and drew it out. It was the black stone. 

“Maukûrz will go to the Holy Crags,” Horm cried out, and a shout of satisfaction went up from the clan. Maukûrz could barely believe it himself, but slowly a wide grin spread across his face. He had been blessed, and soon he would be the one to deliver the gods’ will to his people. 

\----

There was preparation to be done before his pilgrimage. Maukûrz spent the night awake and fasting in the shrine, and before he left Horm anointed him with the holy oil that seeped from the sands around the Forodwaith flats. The thick black tar was mixed with white chalk so that it stood out against dark orcish skin, painting holy symbols on his chest and down his arms, with the Eye’s diamond on his brow. When it was done he was ready to leave the village by the high trail that led to the Holy Crags far above. 

As he worked his way higher the air became sharper with the cold, and the falls of snow became a carpet laid roughly over the ground. His breath steamed in front of him, and he was glad for his rabbit-fur boots keeping his feet from leaching their warmth. After a time he had made his way up to the shoulder of the sacred mountain, and soon the great cliff was stretching over him, the stairs winding up its sheer surface. This was but the first part of the tests he knew were to come. Nervously he pulled at the lacings of his boots, setting them aside upon the rocks, and stretching his toes. He would need his claws for the climb. 

The stair was made up of flat slabs hammered into the stone, with wide gaps between them that he had to jump. It was easier to crouch and use hands and feet both, latching on to the cracks and imperfections in the rock. It was a slow and twisting path. The Wizard’s-Eye had reached the peak of its arc by the time he made it to the Door. 

The Iron Gate had long ago been pried apart and splayed out against the cliff. It had been the tarks who put it there, no work of orcish hands. As though the Honoured Dead could be penned in by something so meaningless! Still, it was a sign of disrespect, and so they had broken it. He gripped the rusted lattice tight as he looked down the Steep Path into the holy place, the wind whistling past him. Here was the second test. He set his claws to the stone, and slid as slowly as he could, digging in with all his strength so that the deeps did not take him when he came out to the High Hall. 

It was cold here. Colder than a cave should be. But this was a place of the Nine Honoured Dead, not any ordinary cave, and Maukûrz could feel the power in the very walls. Carefully he wound his way further inside, walking the Path of the Nine Gates. There were whispers on the air. Something calling him. 

“I am here Great One,” he said quietly into the utter stillness. “I have come to be commanded.”

“Then come,” said the whisper in his ear. “Come and be seen. Come and hear.”

The spells that were carved upon the Gate of the King were giving off a faint light in the darkness. It was golden, the golden of fire, fire and shadow. Breathless, Maukûrz approached. His claws clicked on the stone. The Gate was black and empty, but deep within, something moved. Carefully he edged inside. 

“Do you know me orc?” the voice asked. There was a sword driven into the stone. Behind it a shape, blacker than black. 

“King Angmar,” Maukûrz said, kneeling. “Dread Lord, you are woken!”

“Woken, and left, and returned,” the King of the Dead said, his voice as dry as dust. “Come closer, orc of the North. Let me tell you what must be done.” 

Maukûrz did as he was told, keeping his head bowed. 

“The time of my Kingdom is come again,” the great spirit said. “It shall be risen to the glories of old, the forts rebuilt, the army mustered and retrained, your clans come together. The word of this must go out and be spread, from Fornost to Forochel, from Hithaeglir to the River Lhûn.”

“It shall be as you command, my King.”

“Yes, it will. Now put your hands upon the blade so that I may give you my blessing, envoy.”

Reaching out with trembling hands, Maukûrz closed his fingers around the sword. The edge was far sharper than he had expected, and it bit his palms, sending twin trickles of black blood down the dark metal. Strange things seemed to be happening to his vision. The blade swam in and out, as though he had drunk too deeply of strong spirits. Dimly, he heard laugher. Something was moving over his skin, like smoke. Gradually, a presence that was not his own began to take up space inside his head. 

“Much better,” said the King of the Dead.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Khamul organises Nazgul Tours of Middle-Earth Inc, Kili makes a new friend, and the Ring has failed to mention some of the _other_ things that Bilbo is unconsciously doing with its power.
> 
> (To recap: _serej_ is basically things suitable to sell to non-dwarves.)

Despite their common reputation as a violent people, Dwarves had a great respect for knowledge. Khamûl first learned of this in the Black Mountains west of the Sea of Rhûn, when he visited King Sankibil in Zundûsh-zâram and was treated to a tour of his kingdom beneath the stone, including the largest library he had then seen outside of Barad-dûr. Sankibil and his kin had been proof that some dwarves were wise enough not to be led astray by the lies of Eru’s people, but he had not expected to meet any others like them so far from the lands beneath the Shadow. Now there were twelve more, and another kingdom that might be counted neutral, and the promise of more allies to come. 

This new Master had made it so. A curious creature, Khamûl thought as he stalked the passages of Erebor. There should not be such strength in one so small and gentle, one who felt of earth more than fire. But perhaps in the union of those two elements was something great, something that could make the ground quake and shudder and run like water. As it was said it had in the youngest days of the earth, when Melkor walked. 

The halls beneath the mountain were vast, and the many bridges and walkways bore no markings to guide the way of the stranger. Yet Khamûl had always had a good memory for cities and spaces, and did not mind the wandering. The cool and steady light falling on green stone reminded him of their old home in Minas Morgul, even though the style carved into the stone was that of Dwarves, not the watered memory of Númenór. Númenór meant less to him than it did to some of the others – he had never seen it. 

In time, he found what he was searching for. Cirth runes were inscribed upon the great brass doors in lines of silver; Katûb-zahar, House of Knowledge. It was far from the dragon’s domain, untouched by his fire. Even after so many years, the doors opened easily at a touch. Inside the shelves towered high, carved into the pillars, into the walls, into the stairs. Reading lecterns and tables were cunningly placed each within its own small locus of silence and lamp-light. 

If the people of Thorin, Thráin and Thrór were anything like those he once knew, they would have arranged their library accordingly. Pacing between the stacks, thick with dust and that particular sorcerous tang of aging vellum and paper, retrieving works at random to check them against what he expected, he saw that his memory was correct. This was good; it would save him time. He had come here with specific purpose; he needed a map, and an accurate one. 

Borders might from time to time be redrawn, but the lay of the land was not swift to change. Inked into fine vellum and covering the whole of the skin, he found the best of the lot, and laid upon it a quiet spell of preservation before taking it up, rolled carefully and tied fast. With a thought he sent out the call to the rest of his kin. It would be best if all were present when he spoke to their new Lord. 

The Master was in his consort’s rooms, but alone, although it mattered little. The dwarf was loyal – the weakness of his love made him so, and the ties of the Ring of Durin. Even now the aegis of the Master’s power was beginning to settle into this place, gently pushing aside the mark of the dragon which had lain for so long upon the land. It was a green power that spoke of growing things. The volcanic soil of the mountain would soon be sprouting with life, with grass and trees, and give the possibility of fruitful harvest to both Men and Dwarves. And not only of food but of children too, when the time came for them to think of such things. A bounty that never would have been if not for the Halfling Lord, and another reason for the mortals to give him their loyalty. 

The seven of his kin who remained in Erebor met him outside the chambers, where the Master welcomed them inside, alerted to their passage by the One. Khamûl nodded to him respectfully and went to the great circular stone table in the entrance hall of the royal apartments, bending to spread out his find upon it. Like the rest of the kingdom beneath the mountain, it was sized for those of lesser stature.

“Master, I would talk to you of conquest,” Khamûl said. 

The little Lord – though greater now in his seeming from the magics that wrapped around him – approached and studied the map. “This shows far more than any of our maps in the Shire,” he said, brushing careful fingers across the vellum. “I know the lands here, although they’ve seemed to miss _us_ out.” He pointed to Eriador west of the Misty Mountains, marked here as Lindon, Arnor the Shattered, and Angmar the Fallen, and of course the strongholds beneath Ered Luin. There was no mention made of the homeland of hobbits. Khamûl wondered if the same omission was on most maps – it would be curious, and a boon to its strange people, to be a lost and uncharted area. 

“We are lucky in our placement,” Khamûl explained, illustrating his point with gentle taps. “The mountain is a fortress, and the only nearby threat is Mirkwood, now defeated. They will withdraw and attempt to rebuild, so we might expect them to rise again against us in the years to come. But the strength of Elves is lost and departed. They pass into the West, and no longer enact their will upon the lands. If this White Council wishes to oppose you, and it is clear they will, it is to Men they must turn.

“Dale and Laketown have bowed to us already. When this map was made the Kings of Dale ruled south to the River Running, north upon a border that marks a line between us and the Iron Hills, west to Mirkwood, and east to the border of Rhûn at the River Rhûr. The Master of the Lake does not command what became of the lords of all these fiefs now; he simply trades, and sits with them in council until decisions are reached with a vote from all.”

“It seems a sensible enough way of doing things,” their Master said, interrupting him. “The Shire Thain does something similar.”

Khamûl hesitated. “It may stand well enough in times of peace,” he replied diplomatically. “But it is not efficient in times of war. It slows the muster, and the lesser landowners are not so inclined to provide their numbers.”

“I don’t have any wish to change it, or at least not until we must. The other dragons haven’t even hatched yet.”

“As you will it,” Khamûl said. “King Dáin Ironfoot has promised us alliance, and the orc-clans of the Grey Mountains and Gundabad will answer to your call. It is a good start. But the great kingdoms of Middle-Earth lie far away; Gondor, Rohan, Rhûn, Nurn-in-Mordor, Haradwaith. Lord Mairon left after the battle, and we all have little doubt as to where he went; back to Barad-dûr. He has no more use for the secrecy that kept him in Dol Guldur. He will call upon the orc-lords of Nurn, of the sworn Kings of the Haradrim and of Rhûn. Diminished as he is though, they may be reluctant to answer the call, and this gives us time. We must be strong enough to face him, and whatever armies the White Council brings to bear, and that means we must win some of these kingdoms to our own side by means other than the force of arms we do not yet have.”

“Then all the better for it,” the Master replied. “I’d rather do this without shedding blood, if it’s possible. Now, I suppose you wouldn’t have come to me if you didn’t have a plan, so I would like to hear it.”

“We have done this before, or something much like it,” Khamûl said. There had been some discussion of this amongst them, although the Nazgûl had been brought together by the Nine for so long, working as one, at times almost thinking as one, that they were each intimately familiar with the strengths and weaknesses of the others. Often there was little need to talk, for they knew what was in the minds of each, and thus they moved and acted together. “It is a pity that Angmar is no longer with us, for he built his own kingdom in the north under his name, and were he not bound to his grave I am sure he would build it again.”

“He has always been set in his ways,” Akhôrahil muttered. 

“As old as we are, that is no excuse for being unable to adapt,” Adûnaphel said. 

“You were his lieutenant for a long time,” the Master told Khamûl. “I understand that you want to advocate for him, but he has proven himself treacherous. Only once he is willing to serve, can I afford to bring him back to you.”

“We are... unbalanced without him,” Khamûl said. It was a strange sensation now, to be merely Eight. They had been apart before, but not quite like this, and it was as if one thread in the symphony between their rings had become discordant. 

“Yes,” said Ji Indûr, whom amongst them was most knowledgeable in lore. “And if you have need to kill him Master, I beg you, find another to take up his Ring. Otherwise there is great danger to us. The song of the Nine will fall apart and we shall come to true death.”

“I don’t mean to kill him,” the Master replied. “At least not unless he does something to deserve it, which he is in no position to do. Now, you were speaking of your plan?”

“We must each of us go to these far realms and spread word of your power and strength,” Khamûl said, gesturing to the map. “We must make men fear you, and ply them with the promise of your mercy if they but bow the knee. In Rhûn they still remember me, as they do Dwar and Ji Indûr. One of us will go to them. If in Rohan they have legends of Ûvatha I do not know, who was once a chief amongst them when they still roamed the steppe that became the Brown Lands, but of us he would be best placed to speak to them. 

“In Near Harad the Black Númenórians still rule; Akhôrahil will persuade them of your supremacy to the Dark Tower’s sway. Ren will go farther south than that, to the same ends. Adûnaphel has elected to go to Gondor, although we cannot hope that we shall persuade them; they remember us ill. Still, they will spread about what she tells them, even in hushed whispers out of fear, and in fear gossip travels all the faster. Hoarmûrath shall go the length of the Grey Mountains, then south through the Misty Mountains, and tell of you to the orc-clans there, although some may require further shows of strength before they accept your rule.”

The Master considered this, and from the slight alteration in the frequency of his bond with the One, Khamûl could tell he was seeking the advice of the Ring. Although Khamûl himself was the better known of the Nazgûl in the east, he thought it would be wiser for him to remain here, to see the Master’s work done. Communication with the others would in this case be of no difficulty, for they might speak to each other through the linkages of their Nine Rings, not fettered by the restrictions that had been placed upon Angmar. 

“Then let it be done,” the Master said finally. 

“We shall get fast horses from Laketown, and those who are going will leave as soon as is possible,” Khamûl replied. There was no need or cause for delay; the quicker this was started, the better their chances. They all knew how to return from a position of weakness; it had been done by them before. Indeed, the outlook was better here than it had been in millennia. 

\----

Kili’s arrow-wound was healing far too slowly for his liking. Having only one arm available meant he wasn’t capable of doing _anything_ in Erebor, not helping with repairs to stonework, or mapping out the mines, or seeing to the armories, or riding with the wagons to Laketown to unload old _serej_ steel in return for food. Instead he simply had to wander around, and as breathtaking as simply being here in the Kingdom under the Mountain was after so long hearing all the stories about the glory days of his Uncle’s birthright, wandering was quickly becoming boring. Even Fili, with his head-wound, had still been allowed to help out. 

And speaking of Fili, normally he would have had his brother to keep him company, but as short-handed as they were, he couldn’t be spared just so that he and Kili could make their own amusement. Watching Fili work and teasing him had also quickly lost its lustre, only reminding him of how useless and stifled he was feeling. Óin had told him he would have to keep the sling on until the wound had closed up, and then there would be exercises to do to make sure the muscles regained their flexibility and strength, and it would be weeks, _weeks,_ before he was strong enough to lift rocks, or swing a hammer, or climb scaffolding to check the mortar of arches and vaults. They might at least have given him a pen and found some geometrical or architectural calculations for him to check!

Really, Kili didn’t see how anybody could find cause to blame him if he had to find his excitement in places where strictly speaking, he really shouldn’t have been. It was his boredom that saw him sneaking, one afternoon, along the walkway that led to the ironworks where, in smouldering, bubbling crucibles, nine dragon eggs sat waiting to hatch. Dragons! Was there anything more exciting? When he had first seen Smaug, that day their Company had entered the mountain, his heart had thrilled with fear and wonder at the massive size of the wyrm, his glowing golden scales, his huge wings, the fires that burned in his belly. And then at the battle of the Five Armies – Smaug and that little dragonet that had died being one of those armies all by themselves – he had been struck by that same terrified awe all over again. But Smaug was meant to be sleeping now, so surely, Kili told himself, it couldn’t hurt to sneak in just for a moment and see the eggs. 

The heat was sweltering in the great hall of the foundry, even for a dwarf. Kili felt unfamiliar sweat starting to trickle down his back and chest underneath his clothes, and the very air itself seemed suffocatingly warm and humid. There were the massive crucibles though, with the water-wheel powered bellows firing the flames blue, and nine immense globes of stone just visible over their lips. Although... he frowned. One of those globes looked as though it had been cracked.

As Kili edged slowly forwards, a sudden weight hit him from behind and sent him sprawling to the hard stone, crushing his ribs and pressing his wounded shoulder into the ground, making him cry out in pain. A furious roar split the air above him. 

“ _Aha!_ Thief or dwarvish _spy_ , which are you? Speak intruder or die!”

Kili wheezed, all the breath knocked out of him and his head spinning. He thought he saw what might have been the flash of black talons out of the corner of his eye, and there was a definite prickling of a greater heat at the back of his neck. He struggled to get in enough air past the mass crushing him to make an attempt at an answer. Terror made his muscles weak as water. 

As suddenly as it came, the weight was rapidly lifted off him. Kili rolled awkwardly round onto his front in time to see a writhing black dragonet the size of a large carthorse being lifted into the air by Smaug’s great claws, dangling from a grip around its long serpentine body. It was hissing and protesting loudly, twisting to lash the trailing edges of its wings down at where Kili lay. 

“Enough of that,” Smaug growled. “Did I not tell you that the dwarves are not to be harmed?”

“It is still wandering where it doesn’t belong!” the black dragon complained. “I wasn’t going to kill it if it could explain itself!”

“Yes,” Smaug said, turning his huge head to look at Kili rather closer than he was comfortable with. This wasn’t looking half as fine an idea as it had a few hours ago. “Why _are_ you here, dwarf?”

“I just wanted to see,” Kili replied, feeling gingerly at his ribs to see if any of them were broken. He was starting to get his breath back, and it didn’t hurt too much, so he didn’t think so. Still, he could already tell he was going to be covered in bruises from his impact with the floor, and from the wet trickle at his shoulder he suspected he had torn his stitches. Óin was _not_ going to be pleased. “I’m sorry! I’ll... I’ll just go...”

Smaug’s head, with its complement of dozens and dozens of very large teeth, was disturbingly near now. He seemed to be studying him intently. “You are young for a dwarf, are you not?” he said. 

“I’m seventy-seven this year,” Kili replied, thinking that perhaps he ought to be offended. It wasn’t that young. Old enough to come on the quest, at least! 

Smaug smiled. It was terrifying. Gently, he placed the black dragon down, where it wriggled quickly out of his grasp, the horns around its head and down its neck standing straight up like an affronted cat. “Your Hobbit is a great one for the virtues of friendship,” he said, which Kili thought did not seem to have much to do with anything. “If the Uruloki are to abide here in the mountain with Durin’s Folk, perhaps we should start with the young.” He nudged the black dragonet towards Kili with his knuckles. Kili shrank back, alarmed. This sounded an even worse idea than his plan of sneaking in here in the first place. 

“Ancalagon,” Smaug said, “this is...?”

“Kili,” Kili said, in a small voice.

“Ah yes. The sister’s-son of the King. A Princeling, indeed.”

Ancalagon looked him over. His eyes were gold, with narrow slit-pupils. Standing as he was, his head was twice the height of Kili’s own. “I apologise for my... impetuousness,” he said, hesitantly. “We didn’t look upon each other kindly, yours and mine, the last time I was in Arda.”

“That’s... alright,” Kili replied nervously. They regarded each other in awkward silence for a while. “Have you been... outside of the foundry yet?” he asked. 

Ancalagon shook his head. “Oh, go,” Smaug said, with a wave of his hand. “Do _try_ to be sensible. And do not leave the mountain.”

Feeling rather stunned by this unexpected turn of affairs, Kili led the way into the high halls of Erebor. This was _not_ how he had imagined his visit might go.

\----

The mines of Erebor had been evacuated at great speed. Picks, hammers, trolleys, stools and lanterns had each been abandoned, littering the rough surface of the floors. There was less damp in this mountain than in most, an effect of the heat and fire that still lurked miles and miles below them, dry enough that the metal had not rusted, nor the hardened and treated wood decayed. There were no spiders to spin their webs down here in the deeps with nothing to feed them. Thus the corridors and halls looked as though they had been left only days or perhaps weeks before, as though those who worked them might return at any time. 

It had taken a very long time. 

Glóin was not an expert in mine-workings, or at least not any more so than any dwarf. He could, of course, admire the mathematical precision of the struts and braces that had been left to support the stone, the calculations taken for direction and depth and dimensions to maximise yield and minimise the work of splitting unneeded stone. But his expertise was rather in valuation and merchandise, in the movement of gold, in lending and borrowing; _kidhuzashf,_ or as he had seen some traders translate it in the Common Tongue, economics. 

That much was his excuse for venturing down here. He knew the value of gold and silver and gemstones in markets across Eriador, had word – albeit dated – of their prices in lands further afield. His knowledge was, true enough, six months now out of date, but these were not values that changed often or greatly. New mines rarely opened. This though – the return of the Khazad to Erebor – that would have an effect, sure enough! Though Glóin had not been alive to see it, the loss of Erebor to the dragon decades ago had driven up the price of precious metals and stones to an astonishing degree, leaving their only reliable source of those goods the mines of far-off Rhûn. True, there were some silver-mines in Gondor, but small and meagre. And little use expecting trade from the gem-mines of Harad, with relations with Gondor as bad as they were. 

If pressed to look for advantages to their current situation, Glóin would’ve had to grudgingly admit that at least with the wyrm sitting on that vast mound of _serej_ coinage it would never be available to trade on the markets. Such vast volumes would make gold worth about as much as copper, and there would be many kings and lords out there who would not be happy with that. It would have served well enough released as a slow trickle, but after Thrór’s gold sickness-driven hoarding... Still. Thorin would have known better than to be careless with it, if things had been as they should have been. 

If things had been better. That was the real reason Glóin had come down to the deep mines. Things were... not right. He _knew_ that they were not right, despite this strange lassitude of uncaring that appeared to have come over them all. Accept a dragon in the mountain? Accept _ten_ of them? Accept an alliance with dead things, which any dwarfling knew were bad news? Any of Durin’s people should not let this stand, so why then did he _feel_ no anger when he thought about these indignities, feel indeed, nothing but a calm acceptance while logical arguments that should have provoked rage echoed through his head. He had his suspicions about who was to blame. 

As he had asked of them, Dori, Bifur, Bombur and his brother Óin were waiting for him at the agreed meeting place. A mine-lamp threw flickering light onto the rock walls, rough with pick-marks, occasionally studded with strands of electrum ore. 

“What’s all this about then?” Dori asked as he approached. 

“We can speak Khuzdul here,” Glóin said, in that language. “We have only ourselves to hear us.”

“There has been an outsider amongst us so long it seems even my thoughts are switching into the Common,” Dori said, although changing languages easily enough. “It is good to be able to speak it again.”

Bifur grunted, and his hands moved in the signs of Iglishmêk; “For me, it is better understood.”

Bombur nodded. “But you haven’t answered Dori’s question,” he said. “I’m a cook, not a miner or a merchant, and Dori’s trade is in fabrics. And why did you say we mustn’t tell Bofur about this? He’s the one in charge of the mines; oughtn’t he know about whatever it is?”

“Not about this,” Glóin replied. “This isn’t about the mines. This is about the mountain. Specifically, it is about our King, and the creature he has taken as his Consort.”

“Ah, the Hobbit is not so bad,” Bombur said. “Strange as he is with all his hair on his feet rather than his face, he is brave enough, and he is no more friend to Elves or Men than any of us.”

“He is friend to more than those.”

“This is about the dragon,” Dori said, looking unhappy. “About the treaty.”

“Better to live with a dragon than be dead,” Bifur signed. 

“Aye,” Óin said. “That’s the argument that was put to us. But don’t you think you all accepted it rather quick? No fighting. No arguing. No looking for an alternative.”

“The alternative was being _cooked,_ ” Bombur pointed out. 

“You all know Thorin though,” Glóin said. “Or at least, if you did not know him before, you came to know him over the months of our journey. If I had asked you even in Mirkwood if Thorin Oakenshield would accept a dragon under his mountain, even if the only other hope was a desperate and doomed last stand, would you have said yes?”

As the other three considered this, he began to see the confusion and concern appear on their faces. The realisation that yes, perhaps there was something unusual here. Óin had accepted this already. It had been to his elder brother than Glóin had gone first, seeking assurances that his anxieties had some basis in reality. Glóin had always been prone to uneasiness in the face of success. But after some explanation, once Óin had taken the time to really think it over, he had become aware of it too. 

“Surely not!” Bombur said, sitting down heavily on an abandoned stool. “You think the little Lord would do something like that? Cast some sort of spell on all of us?”

“There’s another thing,” Glóin said. “Why are you calling him _that_?”

“Well, he’s going to marry Thorin isn’t he?” Bombur replied. “They’re going to rule Erebor together.”

“We don’t call Thorin Lord,” Glóin pointed out. “That would be absurd. _King_ Thorin, when formality requires. Any title our burglar would need would be, as I understand it, Prince-Consort. Prince-Consort...” He left it hanging. There was a long silence. Faces creased in increasing confusion. 

“Why don’t I remember his name?” Dori asked. “Thorin uses it all the time! But I can’t...”

“Bofur remembers,” Bifur signed. “Thought it the usual for me.”

“Yes, Thorin uses it. Bofur has always been friendly with the hobbit. I suspect Fili and Kili might recall it as well. But the rest of us, who are not _close_ to him.” Glóin sighed. “There is a reason I only called you four here. Fili, Kili and Ori are too young to be involved in this, even were the Princes not Thorin’s nephews. Bofur would not believe it, and though meaning no harm, might easily let something slip. You know what he is like. And Nori... well.” He looked apologetically at Dori. “You know I bear your brother no ill will, despite his profession, but he is not what might be called reliable.”

“And Balin? Dwalin?” Bombur asked. He was running his fingers over the great plait-loop of his beard in nervous repetition. 

“Dwalin would take his brother’s side,” Óin explained. “And Balin, like the Princes, is too close to be trusted.”

“Then what do you want of us?” Bifur signed. 

“As yet I do not know,” Glóin told them. That was the flaw in this meeting, but he had thought better it happen now then risk the power of this spell taking a greater hold on them in their unawareness. “One thing I want least of all is for my _family_ to come here, but the Raven has already been sent to Dís, and if I were to send another I fear one of those dead Men might be suspicious enough to check it. I know some of Dáin’s people are going to come here; perhaps the traffic of post will then be enough to chance it.”

“They may have already left by the time such a Raven arrived,” Dori said. 

Glóin nodded. “So we must plan something else. Some way of dispelling the magic that has ensnared us all.”

“Wizards?” Bifur signed, although growling in displeasure as he did so. 

“Wizards means Elves and Men,” Óin replied. Everyone made equal looks of disgust at that prospect. 

“Maybe we can do it ourselves, if we can get a Runesmith here,” Glóin said. “One may come with Dáin’s folk, or if not that, then I can make myself wait until Dís comes, even if my family comes then too. There’ll be enough from Ered Luin that surely they will have a Runesmith.”

“Months to wait,” Dori sighed. “How much will happen in months?”

There was no reply to be made to this. None of them knew, and none of them had much desire to speculate about it either. For one thing, Glóin knew, those Mahal-damned dragon eggs would have hatched by then, and that was another problem he had no idea how to deal with. Would they still be small enough to kill without great loss of life? It had never been said if the wyrms were even intending to stay in Erebor. They might leave, go off to start their own hoards. If so, may they steal from the Elves, he thought, although it was a vain enough hope. Elves set little store in gold. 

“We must keep ourselves mindful,” he said. “We must remember that this subtle spell is upon us, and not fall to its effects. We must keep ourselves strong, and recruit others to our cause from the dwarves of the Iron Hills when they arrive.”

The others nodded. There was no need for further discussion. They had said all that had needed to be said, and despite some popular opinion, dwarves could indeed be patient. Particularly when it came to holding grudges.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Elves return to Mirkwood, Ori has a new job, Hoarmurath does missionary work, and the Dwarf-Dragon Youngblood Confederation is formed.
> 
> Polda (Quenya) - Burly  
> Kulkodar (Black Speech) - Dragon

The Halls of Eryn Lasgalen had been growing ever darker in later years as shadows and spiders encroached upon the kingdom, but that darkness was nothing compared to the pall that had fallen now. The corridors seemed to echo with the presence of those who had died here, and there was no victory to placate their memories. Tauriel was old enough to remember when the woods had been airy and light, and there had been joy and laughter, feasting and drinking and dancing. No longer. Nor any sign that things would return to those ways. 

It had been her wish, when King Thranduil still ruled, to go out into the world and fight against the evils that surrounded them. But she had not truly expected anything like what they had faced. She had not known, not as the King and those of his generation had known... now she wondered if they had been right all along. If King Legolas had remained in the Greenwood rather than call their army to seek justice and fight for good, many might have lived who were now dead or wounded unto death. But at what cost? It had always seemed to her the responsibility of the elves to live up to their birthright and principles, and not to do so would be to forsake that which made them who they were. And yet... they had fought for those principles, and evil had still carried the day. 

It had been an unpleasant surprise to realise in the aftermath that with the deaths of several older and more experienced elves – and no doubt influenced by her old friendship with their new King – she had somehow been left in charge of the remainder of the army. From Captain of the Forest Guard to a General and the Right Hand of the King... She winced even as she thought it. It was an ill choice of words. Yet despite the poison of that wound Legolas had survived it. He was too strong to fall to that black spell, thank Illuvatar. It was at least a disfigurement better borne than that of dragon fire; Maedhros son of Fëanor had lost his right hand also, and he had done things both great and terrible thereafter. There were worse heroes of the First Age for Legolas Thranduillion to be compared to. 

There had been cause for memories and whispers of that Age to arise in the camp as they travelled in any case. Lord Elrond of Rivendell had been fostered by Maedhros for many years. Tauriel had spoken with him from time to time on the journey back to the forest, making sure that the healers were supplied with everything they needed to best tend to the wounded, and she had seen the ghost of old memories in his eyes when he lent his strength to fight that dark taint that had almost struck the King down. She had found herself frightened though, whenever she had cause to go to that tent that still seemed to carry the scent of dragon-fire and burning flesh, frightened in a way she herself did not fully understand. That fear shamed her, and whilst she would have wanted to defy it by bearing the sight of those so terribly wounded she knew only a little of healing, and thus would have been of little use there. Better that she keep to her own areas of expertise, and help her people that way. 

Now they had returned to Eryn Lasgalen those skills were being called on in other respects. Legolas had called for her personally, and although she did not yet know what they were to discuss, she had some fair idea. 

Legolas greeted her at the entrance of the chambers that had once been his father’s, his face still drawn and pale, his arm still in its sling. It had resumed healing, but the unnatural infection had left the limb weak, and the stump painful and tender. 

“Come in,” he said. “We have much to do.”

“I am at your command,” she replied. Like the halls, Thranduil’s chambers had the same feel of a place abandoned. They might once have been pleasant and welcoming, but Legolas had made no attempt to change anything here and that preservation created the sense of a mausoleum. 

“You were there when the White Council persuaded me to order the retreat,” he said, sitting and slipping his arm out of its sling, letting the stump rest instead on a pillow while he gently massaged the muscles of his forearm. Lord Elrond had warned that he would have pangs and phantom pains from his missing hand from time to time. “You know the arguments they made.”

Tauriel forbore from mentioning that it had been less of a persuasion and more that Lord Elrond had physically held him back from trying to return to the battle and shouted at him until he saw reason. “They told us that we must wait, and build our strength, and return with a greater force with the armies of Middle-Earth behind us,” she said instead, since it was clear that Legolas was expecting some kind of answer. 

Legolas nodded. He gestured to a roll of parchment that lay on the table. Tauriel picked it up and read it quickly, then again more slowly, her heart sinking at the implications. 

“To order a draft of our people,” she said quietly. “Such a thing is the way of Men. Has this ever been done amongst us before?”

“As Lord Elrond and Lady Galadriel have oft said,” Legolas said, with a twisted knife’s-edge of a smile. “The time of the Elves in Middle-Earth is ending. My people will reach Valinor one way or another, whether they go in body or merely in soul. At least in the Halls of Mandos we will have good company.”

“And what is my role to be in all this?” Tauriel asked. 

“Many of those we will be calling upon will not have had any interest in learning the arts of the warrior, even despite all their thousands of years,” the King said. “You must arrange their training. Also, we have become too used to fighting in the forest, with all the advantages we have here. The whole army must learn to be just that; an army, not a ranging, guerrilla force as we have been. There are some amongst the Palace Guard who know of such things from the First and Second Age; we must call upon them.”

“You have great confidence in me,” Tauriel said. It was a greater responsibility than she had ever had before, or indeed ever wanted to have, but she would do it if her King and friend asked it of her. “Is there no-one better suited?”

“None I know and trust as well as you,” Legolas replied. “And it is not the only thing we must do in the years to come. Ten years we have, at least, before we can make our move. I admit it is not long, but every year is another in which our enemy grows stronger as well. We wounded Smaug but he will heal, and all our great-bows were destroyed by that fell witchcraft that sundered the earth. More must be made; you must find the plans for them and then we must speak to Lord Elrond. The smiths of Imladris are more skilled than our own, I know.”

Tauriel nodded, already steeling herself for the work ahead. “It shall be done,” she said, bowing. She would do this; rise to the occasion and make her King proud of the trust he was laying in her. Then when the time came they would wipe this evil from the land. If the elves were to leave Middle-Earth, let them leave it a clean and good place for those who would come after them. 

\----

A Raven had come that morning bearing word that the first band of dwarves from the Iron Hills was drawing near to Erebor. Now Ori waited nervously at the Great Gate with the rest of the Company to welcome them to the mountain. Both Thorin and his Hobbit were looking very fine. Thorin had started to grow out his beard again, although it wasn’t quite long enough to braid yet. He’d taken off the outer layer of steel scale-mail he had worn throughout their quest, revealing the fine mithril layer beneath, and he wore a circlet that Balin said had been worn by Thráin when he was the heir to Erebor, in the years before the dragon. The royal crown of course, as all the records told, had been lost on the field at Azanulbizar. Some Moria orc had it now.

One of the dead men that served their Prince-Consort was there as well. Most of the others had left the mountain about a week ago on errands, although Ori didn’t know the details. He’d asked Balin about it, since as the official scribe for the Company he ought to write it down in the chronicle he’d been penning. He thought he would call it the Quest for Erebor. Balin hadn’t been able to tell him very much though except that it was about diplomacy, and Ori was too nervous around the wraiths to go up and ask one of them. 

It was about then that Thorin noticed that Kili was missing, and rounded on Fili with a glare and some pointed questions about where his brother might be. Ori had seen him sneaking off with the black dragon earlier, but he didn’t want to say anything and risk Thorin’s wrath. He was pretty sure the King wouldn’t approve, and Ori didn’t actually know if Thorin knew about it. Fili knew at least _something_ , because it _was_ his brother they were talking about, but it might be only the two of them (apart from those concerned) that did. Considering some of the older dwarves opinions about dragons, it might be for the best. For _his_ part, Ori had mixed feelings. Dragons were terrifying, and Smaug at least had killed a lot of people, but they were so old that they knew _so many things_! Just think about everything they might be able to tell him about the history of Middle-Earth! 

Kili did turn up before the Iron Hills dwarves arrived, but it was a near thing. Ancalagon also snuck into the Gate-Hall by a different route, curling up in a shadow where he could barely be seen. Ori didn’t have time to do more than notice his presence though before Bombur was calling out from the Gate overlook, and the massive doors were swinging open to let the approaching column through. 

The Raven had estimated the numbers at about a hundred, and they made a great crowd when set against the Company’s mere fourteen, plus one wraith and one dragon. Their leader – a tough-looking dwarrowdam with warrior’s tattoos on her shaved head, and a two-handed axe on her back – made all the appropriate greetings to Thorin, and there was a moment’s stilted silence, but then the crowd broke apart in a flurry of excited murmuring and began to mingle with the Company, talking about the usual subjects of any two groups of dwarves meeting. Ori had no sooner mentioned that he was a scribe than he found himself being dragged over to meet some of the newcomers with similar interests and professions, and in a little while he found himself part of a small circle of conversation with Balin and a Master of Laws from the Iron Hills, a dwarrowdam named Tazl. 

“It is convenient that one of your profession came,” Balin said, after some general gossiping, and an interesting anecdote about a dispute in the salt mines a few leagues south of the Iron Hills. “One of the tasks which I have been putting off for lack of experienced hands is an accounting of ownerships and rights in Erebor. We do not yet know which families will be returning to us from Ered Luin or other places, but when they do we must know which homes are rightfully theirs, as well as which businesses, mine-rights, taxes, that sort of thing. Of course all that was stored in the treasury is lost to us, but many agreements were drawn up between the citizens and the royal family, the details of which neither Thorin or I remember exactly. I, and young Ori here, would be gratified to have your assistance in this matter.”

“It would be an honour,” Tazl replies. “Even just to be able to come here... I almost can’t quite believe it to be real. No-one ever thought Erebor would be ours again. Despite the price, none of us who came were willing and wanting to come would say it was not worth it.”

“Glad to hear it, lass,” Balin said, then addressed the whole group nearby. “Now, you must be tired and hungry after your long journey, all of you. Come, let me show you the rooms we’ve set aside for you, let you get settled in.” 

There was a general cheer of appreciation for this, and with Balin leading the way, in drips and drabbles the group began to make its way further into the mountain that from now on would be their home.

\----

The horses in the stables of Esgaroth were sturdy, hardy beasts, albeit not a patch on the steeds that had once been bred in Barad-dûr from Rohirrim and Khandish stock. Still, Hoarmurath found that his chestnut mare served him well enough as a riding mount, though he would not trust her spirit if it came to battle. Thankfully, real battle was not something he was expecting from this trip. 

There was no true road northwards in this age. There had been one once, when Mount Gundabad had still been a dwarf-hall, but millennia had covered it with grass and weeds, with no trace to tell what route it once had led. It made less difference to his progress than might be expected in other terrain however, for even once he had passed the dragon’s Desolation the land was still one of open hills and plains, empty moors and scrublands. Instead of rain came flurries of snow; the winter solstice and the turning of the year were nearing. It was a good time to visit orcs. These were the long nights, and the longest, most sacred to come. If he could, he would arrange to be at Gundabad for the Solstice, for the great festival there. All the orc clans of the northern mountains would gather together at that time, even those not under Bolg’s rule, protected by truce. The perfect moment to spread the word of this new lord. A new religion. 

He made good time. Polda – a name he had given the mare in a moment of whimsy – was made for land such as this, keeping up her endurance on forage in the evenings, maintaining a steady walk and trot for the eight hours the light held, with a few half-hour breaks to rest. Travelling thirty miles in a day, it took Hoarmûrath but three days to reach the foothills of the Grey Mountains. Here, a lone traveller, he did not need to expend much work to find orcs; they found him. 

Like all of the Rings of the Nine, Hísë, the Ring of Mist, could detect the presence of other creatures of the Shadow, so that when the attack came it came as no surprise. Even before they made a move Hoarmûrath could feel the slow heart-beats of a dozen orcs concealed in the rocky landscape, grey skin and grey furs letting them blend into the rock. He gave no show of his foreknowledge, but continued at a walk as though a simple traveller foolish enough to come into this dangerous place. Then, with well-practised timing, orcs arose from their hiding places, some with bows drawn, others moving to block the pathway ahead and behind, arrows then quickly buzzing through the air like huge and deadly wasps. 

Hoarmûrath turned them aside with a simple spell. As they gaped, he raised his hand and called light, a white flash like the metal-that-burns, heatless and harmless, and split the air with the Nazgûl-screech of fear that made all mortal things quake. The orcs staggered back, shielding their eyes, and went to their knees with cries of terror and awe. 

“You know who I am?” Hoarmûrath asked them.

“Yes my Lord,” the leader of the little hunting party said, rising and approaching a short distance, though still hunched and half-bowed. “You are one of the Honoured Dead my Lord. Please; we did not know, we would never have dared...”

“I come with a message for the clans of the mountains,” Hoarmûrath said. “A message from my master.”

“We had heard the Great Eye had been defeated in a battle to the south,” the orc said, looking shifty. Likely they had sent the warriors of their particular clan south at Mairon’s command, but equally there had been few on that battlefield who had seen enough to know more than distorted rumours of what exactly had happened there. 

“Not from the Eye,” Hoarmûrath replied. “We serve him no longer. Another has come; another more powerful.” This was not precisely true, but what use was the truth in this? This was work of words, saying fine things. Mairon had made promises to his servants, with never the intention to keep them. Their little Lord might have some other ideas, but he still had much to learn, and would understand in time how a legend worthy of service might be made. 

“There was also word that Bolg, Chief-of-Chiefs, spoke with a mighty spirit,” the orc volunteered. 

“He is the one the Nine now serve,” Hoarmûrath said. “He is a god from strange and far-away lands, new-come to this earth, and he would stretch out his dominion over these lands. He is fire, and earth, and bounty. He calls the orcs of the north to submit to him and swear their allegiance. He demands your worship.”

“By what name might we know this new god?” the orc asked.

Hoarmûrath considered it. Their Lord’s old name had been deemed unfit by the One, and he had chosen no new title for himself. If appeared that it fell to him to name him. At least if the Ring found it inadequate, it had ways of making its displeasure known. 

“He is Kulkodar, the Father of Fire-Drakes,” Hoarmûrath said, and felt Hísë grow warm for a moment on his finger. He had chosen well. 

“I will tell our Chief and our God’s-Honoured of great and terrible Kulkodar,” the orc said, bowing again. Hoarmûrath nodded to him, bid him move aside with a wave of his hand, and nudged Polda forward. This was only one small clan out of hundreds which studded the great snowy peaks of the Grey Mountains. He had many more to find in the weeks to come.

\----

On his way back from the Hall of Records to his rooms, Ori noticed something rather odd high up in one of the great chambers, those massive rooms where many pathways crossed at different heights, and hundreds of house windows looked out onto the streets and down to shadowed depths. A black shape was moving on the carven stone, climbing towards the dark ceiling. In made him curious enough to investigate, making his way to the room’s central stair which ascended in a spiral wide enough for twenty dwarves abreast. He was already quite sure that said shape was Ancalagon, long and lithe as only the dragonet was, but what he was doing was another matter. 

The highest road in the chamber crossed the space at a height equal to where Ori had seen Ancalagon moving, but looking around at the rough clusters of stone that jutted towards the pathway, he could seen no sign of the young dragon. He ventured out a short distance, wary, for there was little light up here where so few would ever have need to go. Perhaps Ancalagon had already moved on in the time he had spent climbing? 

Then, just as he was about to turn and go, someone he had very much _not_ expected to see poked their head up from a natural crevice in the rock. 

“Hello there Ori,” Kili called out, grinning far too widely for someone dangling precariously over a drop of several hundred fathoms. “What are you doing up here? I thought Balin had you working with some of the newcomers looking at dull old scrolls.”

“I could ask you the same question!” Ori replied, edging closer, looking carefully at the sharp edge of the road, a little too close even for an eternally sure-footed dwarf. “This looks awfully dangerous Kili.”

A blocky, black-scaled head extended sinuously from the crack next to Kili’s. “We are playing a game,” Ancalagon said. “A game of hiding and seeking. Kili says that this is a common past-time amongst young dwarves, and it is a good game for dragons too, because it is like hunting. Of course, treasure in a mountain doesn’t move around, but I promised we wouldn’t move either once we found a good hiding place.”

“Then who are you hiding from?” Ori asked, looking around. Apart from the three of them, there didn’t seem to be any sign of movement in the chamber. Although the dwarves from Dain’s kingdom had swelled their number, Erebor was designed to hold tens of thousands, with space left over for the humans nearby to retreat into the mountain in times of war and siege. Six-score only filled a corner. 

“One of my siblings hatched this morning,” Ancalagon replied. “Ondolissë. Smaug said he was still resting so to get out from under his wings, so I suggested this dwarvish game and she agreed.”

“And I’m hiding from Fili,” Kili said, grinning. “Although he doesn’t know he’s taking part in a game exactly. We just thought that since it was going on we might sort of unofficially invite him... since he was looking for me anyway.”

“Oh.” Ori hadn’t heard about another egg hatching. The thought made him a little bit nervous. That made three dragons in the mountain now, all of which could do them a lot of harm if they decided the treaty wasn’t to their liking. Not that he distrusted them, exactly, he was just very aware of their deadly potential. But Kili seemed to be getting along with them well, so they couldn’t be all that bad. 

“Do you want to hide too?” Ancalagon asked. “There’s room in here for someone so small, or you could find another place and then we would come find you once Ondolissë has found us.”

“I have found you already!” Another voice cried out, and as though appearing from the very stone itself suddenly another dragonet leapt from the wall, twisting elegantly in mid-air to land on the walkway. Ori just had time to register scales in all the possible hues of grey before the backwash from the newcomer’s wings made him stumble sideways towards the open drop, fumble, teetering, on the edge, and then feel his feet slip away beneath him as gravity laid its grip upon him and he fell. 

There might have been shouting above him, but he dropped too fast to tell. Wind whipped past his ears, through his hair and beard. Far-away windows, and much closer pathways, flashed in front of his eyes, gone in moments. And then a larger shape dropped past him like a sleek, pointed stalagmite, and before he knew it he had hit something soft and firm that moved underneath him. His hands shot out instinctively, grasping for something to hold, and found ridges and horny spines. Wings flared either side of him, and then they settled with surprising gentleness on the wide spiral of the central stairs. Ori stayed where he was, trembling, and became gradually aware of something nudging hesitantly against his shoulder and a voice saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” over and over again. 

Eventually, Ori opened his eyes. The thing nudging him was Ondolissë’s head. Pale green eyes blinked at him. “I didn’t mean to do that,” she said softly. “Please forgive me?”

“At least... at least you caught me!” Ori said, voice tremulous, trying not to be sick. Carefully he managed to work fingers stiff with terror loose, and slid down off the dragonet’s back. He was glad, he thought as from a distance, that he wasn’t man-sized, because surely he would have been too heavy, might not even have fit in the span of her back between her wings. 

A soft sound made him look up in time to see Ancalagon gliding almost silently through the air to land on the steps a little way above them. Kili scrambled off his back where he’d been lying, running down to grab Ori by the shoulders. 

“You’re alive!” he shouted, grinning with evident relief. “Dori would have _killed_ me if you’d died. Not,” he added quickly, “that that’s the only reason I’m glad you didn’t die, I mean, you _are_ my friend and it was all my fault and I’d have been terribly guilty...”

“That’s... okay,” Ori managed to fit in between the flood of apologies coming out of Kili’s mouth. “I’m fine. I just... really don’t want to ever do that again.”

“I should have been more careful,” Ondolissë said. “It was very high. You were lucky not to hit any of the other walkways.” 

Ori hadn’t thought of that. He gazed upwards, gulping. Yes, if he had hit one at the wrong angle, or after too long a fall, he would have broken bones or maybe even died. Dwarves might be naturally tough, but tough only took you so far. 

“Can we go somewhere where there isn’t a long drop?” he asked. 

Fili, the other, unknowing, member of their disastrous game of hide-and-seek found them some time later in the corridors leading to the area the Company had tentatively claimed as their new quarters – as Ori was well aware, the results of his research might turn up still-living owners, but if so it would also identify homes to which no-one held claim as replacements. Looking rather irritated, the Prince glared at the four of them. 

“Kili, where have you _been_ all day?” he asked impatiently. “I had enough trouble finding you even before you got your sling off.” He glanced at Ori, and at the two dragons, and said more quietly, “Can we talk Kili, just you and me?”

“Ah, I didn’t mean to make you worry or anything Fili,” Kili said, looking a bit chastened. 

“Have I done something wrong?” Fili asked. “Only we always looked out for each other, on the journey here, but now it seems I hardly see you.”

“No, nothing like that,” Kili replied, as the two of them went a little way off to have their conversation. “It was only that when I was injured I couldn’t do anything useful, and you were busy, so I had to find something else to keep me occupied and I suppose now that there are more dwarves around to take up the slack I hadn’t realised... I didn’t want to bother you doing something important for Erebor.”

“Kili, you’re my brother,” Fili said, looking pained. Ori shuffled backwards a bit, trying to look as though he wasn’t listening. This wasn’t really any of his business. “There’s _nothing_ more important than you.” 

Kili didn’t seem to know what to say to this. “Well, anyway,” he finally replied. “The reason you couldn’t find me was, we were playing hide-and-seek.”

“You and... the dragons?”

Kili nodded. “Ancalagon and Ondolissë,” he said, waving at each of them as he made the introductions. “I’ve been showing Ancalagon around the mountain, and Ondolissë just hatched this morning. And Ori joined in our game too,” he added, not mentioning how well that _hadn’t_ gone. Just as well really, Ori thought. Now that it was over, he’d rather it not be brought up again. He would rather forget the whole experience. 

“It’s like your secret club!” Fili said, smiling. “Dragonets and us young dwarves; yeah, it does seem right that we should stick together. You don’t mind another person joining?” he teased. 

“Yes, that’s it exactly,” Kili said, matching his brother’s wide grin. “I bet Uncle would be proud of us too, helping diplomacy and all. Obviously, as the Heir you _should_ be doing your part, for the future of Erebor.”

“We are pleased to meet you, Prince Fili,” Ondolissë said, inclining her head to him. “Although perhaps it is too late, as you dwarves count things, to get to know each other better at the moment. You need more sleep than the Uruloki do.”

“That’s true,” Kili said, and punched his brother in the shoulder in a friendly fashion. “Let’s go then. We can talk more in our rooms.” They went off together, leaving Ori alone with the two dragonets. 

“I notice you were not asked if you _wanted_ to join this confederation we appear to be forming,” Ondolissë said to Ori. She sounded amused. 

“I don’t mind,” Ori replied. “So long as it doesn’t involve anything like today again. Anyway, Balin, Tazl and the others are all very clever and wise, but they’re so much older than me I don’t feel I can talk to them outside of our work. The Princes might be, well, princes, but at least they’re about my age.”

“But we, although reborn, are very much older than you,” Ondolissë pointed out. “And some of us may be wiser, though I am not sure about my sibling here.”

“Hah!” Ancalagon said, bristling the horns around his head, but not otherwise objecting. 

“That’s different,” Ori said, trying to put his feelings into words. Even though he had only just met the dragonets, he still felt this to be true. “You’re dragons. It just stands to reason you’d be old and wise, but it doesn’t _feel_ the same as with older dwarves. I can’t explain it better than that.”

“Well as long as you have no objections,” Ondolissë said. 

“A youngblood confederation,” Ancalagon said, smiling without showing teeth. “Sounds a fine thing indeed!”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ji Indûr asks for directions, Adûnaphel proves that she is excellent at disguises, Fili teaches dragons board games, and Dis finally reaches Erebor.
> 
> (The Five Di are mythological sages/rulers from ancient (~2000BCE) China. In this I'm taking Rhûn to be the equivalent of China, Khand is India, and Harad is both the Middle-East and northern Africa.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Constructive criticism welcome, particularly so if I ever write something that's offensive. (Although, if it's spelling mistakes, I may or may not be too lazy to go back and fix it.)

The Gold Road did not only transport gems, silks and precious metals west, it also transported rumours east. Merchants were talkative folk, and Huang Bao counted himself as part of that generalisation. Certainly he made a point at every town along their way to visit the local drinking house to socialise with other travellers. It was wise to hear of any difficulties that might present themselves further along their way, from unfavourable weather to increases in bandit activity, although the Emperor’s Guard were eternally zealous in safeguarding the trading routes. What was trade if not the lifeblood of Rhûn, after all? And what a dishonour on His Imperial Majesty’s rule, if a traveller could not safely pass from one side of the Empire to the other. 

The new whispers from the west spoke of great changes in the Kingdom of Dale. Quite what those changes were, were a matter for debate, and none of those rumours seemed to Bao to be very credible. Dragons and wizards and gold, but sparse on the details that would indicate any real source of truth. However, whatever that truth might turn out to be, it was a cause for concern. Dale and the Iron Hills on their north-eastern border were a vital source of salt and iron, not to mention that the capital, Laketown, served as an excellent buffer and facilitator of trade with the heathen far-western realms, which in their godlessness feared contact with their betters. If that buffer were lost, it would be a great financial blow to both the east and west. 

Ah, but he would find out soon enough for himself. Their caravan was reaching the river Rhûr marking the border, and he only intended to venture as far as the salt-towns. Even if something had happened further west, as the rumours indicated, it should not make too great a dent in his profits. He hoped. 

The border town of Manzhouli was their last stop before the crossing the river at the great ford of Yangshuo. The caravan itself made camp outside the small collection of houses tightly hugging the rolling landscape. North-east, the desert whose edges they had skirted for the past few weeks could just be seen, nothing but an expanse of cold sand and bare stone. Here though there was enough forage for the oxen and the ponies, and a warm welcome in Manzhouli itself. There was even a small but thriving market for those who did not wish to venture out of lands under the Emperor’s protection. Bao spent some time checking over the wares in his wagons before going into town, making sure nothing had shifted or been damaged during the day’s travel. His cargo was bales of raw silk wrapped in jute and wax-paper, which he would trade for both a much greater volume of raw iron ingots and forged goods, as well as Gondorian silver, but there was also a heavy lock-box containing gold coin and a few lesser gems which would go to buy salt. Indeed, he hoped to fill it entirely with the white gold. He had been travelling this route for years, and always managed to turn a tidy profit. 

Satisfied that all was as it should be, Huang Bao walked into town, stopping for brief conversations with a few of his fellow travellers that he saw on the way shopping for food, or other wares including the strong local spirits, which were fermented from fruits or berries and distilled during the winter months by leaving them outside and picking out the ice as it formed. Personally he avoided such beverages, whose effects on the following day were much worse than civilised rice wine. 

The local inn and drinking house seemed unusually quiet when he arrived. It was late enough in the day that he would have expected it to be full of both locals and travellers, drinking and eating their evening meal, but although the windows shone with light, there was no hubbub of conversation audible from the doorway. Nor were there any mounts in the rough stables next to the building save one, a relatively stocky horse with the rough coarse coat of a Dale breed. Frowning, Bao ducked under the low mantle and went inside. 

Immediately, he stopped. In the centre of the room the tables and chairs had been pushed aside save for one that now sat before the small shrine recessed into the wall, the shrine of the Eye of Heaven. Sitting upon it was a figure in black robes, hood pushed back to reveal empty air surmounted by a shadowy crown. He was studying a map spread over his knees when Bao entered, but looked up at the sound of the door swinging closed. Instinctively, Bao dropped to his knees and genuflected. It had been thousands of years, the legends said, since one of the Nine _Di_ had walked the Empire at the behest of the Eye of Heaven, but he had no doubt that this strange figure was one of their number. 

He was not the only one offering appropriate respect. In the space opened up before the lone chair, the innkeeper was doing the same. 

“Merchant,” the Honoured Ancestor-Hero said, in a raspy, inhuman voice. “To where do you travel?”

“West to the salt mines, Son of Heaven,” Bao replied. 

“And from where do you come?”

“From the capital, Son of Heaven.” The family house there in the Merchant District had been passed down for three generations, and he dearly hoped would be passed on for many more.

“How many days have you been upon the Gold Road since then?”

“Five weeks travel with wagons, Son of Heaven.”

“Good,” the _Di_ said. “It may interest you to know that the Will of Heaven is making itself known in a new form in the West. In the Kingdom under the Mountain, the Dragon-Emperor now rules. I bear news of this to the Son-of-Heaven in Rhûn.”

“My family and I are ever obedient to the Will of Heaven,” Bao replied, his mind whirring. Now those unbelievable rumours seemed less unbelievable. 

“You may leave us now,” the _Di_ said, dismissing him. Bao shuffled backwards out of the inn, got to his feet, and fled back towards the caravan. He had no wish to stay in Manzhouli tonight. 

\----

Adûnaphel did not expect to have the same luck in Gondor as some of her brothers had had in the lands that were still sworn to the Shadow. At least now, thanks to Hoarmûrath, she had a fit name to give to their Master. She had felt it as they all had through the ring-connections they shared, whilst travelling the south-road east of the Anduin. There had been four of them then, before Ûvatha split off west towards Rohan. Now she, Ren and Akhôrahil were riding through the forests of Ithilien, having skirted the Black Gate and the Dead Marshes. There had been signs of orcs atop the Gate, an indication if any were needed that Mairon was busily securing his hold on Mordor once again. No doubt Nurn had bowed to him already. At least they would be able to count on the orcs of the northern mountain ranges, and they could hope that Ji Indûr would reach the Emperor of Rhûn before whatever messenger the Eye would send. 

Ûvatha, however, was having less luck, as they had gleaned from the reports he made back to Kulkodar via his Ring Hortalë. Fengel, the current King of Rohan, had seemed a target ripe for persuasion to their cause, a man much in love with riches, gold and fine things. Ûvatha might have made him many promises with the wealth of Erebor, but he had not been the first to come to the court at Edoras. The White Istari, Curunir, had made no attempt to conceal his presence there. Ûvatha was not strong enough to stand against him alone – he had left without ever entering the building, a pretence of a petitioner who had simply gone away disappointed. 

Gondor would be no better, she thought, but at least she could hope there would not be any wizards. It would soon be time for her to take the turning west, through Osgiliath and towards the White City, but before then there was Ithilien, more settled now than she remembered from their days in Minas Morgul. The countryside was, as usual, crawling with Rangers. So far however the three of them had passed undetected, remaining hooded and cloaked at all times, maintaining the illusion of simple travellers. 

There was a temptation to go east, just for a little while, to their old home. It would still bear the imprints of them even after all this time, Adûnaphel was sure of that. But it was not in her orders, and would be both foolish and dangerous besides. With the pass of Cirith Ungol and its guard-tower above, it would not have long lain abandoned after Mairon returned to Barad-dûr. To go to Minas Morgul would be to reveal their presence to him.

The orc movements within that wall of mountains had not gone un-noticed by Gondor either, she found, listening in to hushed and worried conversations in way-houses on the road, buying food for the horses and for themselves which they only pretended to eat. The Rangers were concerned, and so were the villagers and townsfolk, and undoubtedly so would the Steward be, as word filtered back to him. In some ways this was good; it was a known threat that they could be a saviour from, or at least claim that, for she knew it would not be believed. It did not need to be believed, not whole-heartedly. Just the thought of it, the subconscious knowledge and touch of hope, would be a slow poison seeping through the minds of those who heard. It would be a foundation for something more. 

Adûnaphel left the others a few days later, taking the wide and well-travelled road through long-abandoned Osgiliath, over its great bridge now ruined and spanned with a wooden replacement. She remembered laying siege to this place, when it had still been lived in by a few. The men of Gondor had fought well to preserve this place, but it had never been the same since the plague and the Kin-strife. Now it was simply rubble around the road, a throughway, long past the days of its glory. 

From Osgiliath she went through the equally fallen Rammas Echor, and then the flat, fertile, open farmland of the Pelennor Fields stretched before her all the way to the foothills of the White Mountains and the White City nestled against them, shining in the sun in the far distance. If it did come to war, this wall would not stand against any army, she thought to herself, but perhaps with the threat from Mordor, the Steward would order repairs to be started. As she understood it from quiet enquiries on the road, Turgon the Old was the current Steward, aged for a Man without the blood of Númenór at eighty-six. He was still sound of mind, but tired easily, so that much of his daily work had been delegated to his son Ecthelion II. 

It was only another day’s steady travel on the good road before Adûnaphel reached the Great Gate of Minas Tirith. She made it inside before it was shut over for the night, and found lodgings, since the court would see no petitioners before the next day. It would not be wise to reveal any part of her nature before entering the Steward’s Hall. She doubted any here had a weapon that could harm her, but they still might force her out of the city with a concerted effort, or bar the Seven Gates against her whenever she might approach. She was not here to make Gondor an even greater enemy than it already was. 

The seventh and final gate of the city opened onto a wide stair, which led up through the spire of rock that stuck out through the city like the prow of a ship towards Mordor. Atop it, the spire had been flattened out into an open plaza, the Court of the Fountain, no doubt used for ceremonies when the need arose. She had never seen this much of Minas Tirith before, although it felt so very familiar, the sister of its dark twin east of the Anduin. A small crowd of petitioners formed an orderly line up to the great doors of the Hall, skirting a wide half-circle around the dead remains of the White Tree. It was strange to look upon to her otherworldly senses; even lifeless it had within it a brightness like moonlight, a fell light that in its day would have burned. 

Hooded, cloaked, Adûnaphel joined the line in the guise of an old crone, having adopted a bent posture and taken up a gnarled walking stick as her disguise even before she passed through the seventh gate. She waited patiently. She would approach the Steward in this manner, give him advice and words of wisdom as an aged soothsayer, and only reveal her true self if it became necessary. A witch-woman might be reviled or disbelieved, but she had decided her chances were better judged thusly than as one of the Nazgûl. 

When it finally came her turn to pass between those tall doors, she beheld the hall inside with curiosity. It was formed of white stone with black pillars, and lined with white marble statues of the Kings of old. At the head of the hall was a dais with three chairs, the tallest of which was raised up high above the others at the top of a stair. The Steward Turgon sat in the left-hand chair at the foot of the stair, seeming half in a doze, and his son sat in the chair to the right. There were none of the nobles or courtiers she might have expected, but hearing petitions was not work of much interest.

“You may approach and present your petition,” the guard at the door told her. Adûnaphel mocked a trembling curtsey to him, and made her way slowly towards the dais. 

“My lords of Gondor,” she said. There was little need to make her voice any more ghostly than it already was. “My lords, I come not for myself, but for our great nation. It has been given of me to see things, visions and dreams of past, present and future, and what I have seen concerns me.”

At this, Steward Turgon roused, and drew himself more upright in his chair. His son leaned forward. “Little have visions or works of magic ever aided Gondor,” Ecthelion said. “For who can say whether they come from a true source or from the enemy. Yet I respect that you have come here with good intentions. Speak, and we shall deliberate upon the news you bring.”

Adûnaphel curtseyed again. It amused her, thinking how different would be their words were she truly known. The curve of her hunch made her hood hang low, obscuring any suspicion that there was naught to be seen where a face should be. 

“My lords must surely know already that a shadow has returned to the east,” she said. “In my dreams I have seen darkness and fire. It is a doom that all who see it know will come, even if not within the lifetime of one such as I, or within yours, my lord Steward. The strength of Gondor has been tried before, and it shall be again. The paths of the future are unclear – though I am pained to say it, Gondor is not as strong now as it was in ages past.”

“Then you offer an ill omen indeed,” Turgon said. His gnarled fingers gripped the arms of his chair, uneasy. 

“It is ill, but I also see hope,” Adûnaphel replied. “There are other powers within the world.”

“If you speak of the wizards, Mithrandir the Wanderer has not been seen in these lands for many years,” Ecthelion said. “As to Saruman, Warden of Orthanc, perhaps he will be of help if war comes, but even he is but one man. I hope your visions have better news than this.”

“A change has come far to the north,” she said. “Dwarves have retaken one of their ancestral kingdoms, with the help of a great ally. My dreams have shown him to me. Above all, I have seen, this lord desires peace, peace across all lands. He is no friend to the Enemy.”

“Curious,” Ecthelion said, leaning back. “And easy enough to check if it is true, although no word has yet come of it to us so far south. Were your visions clear enough to put a name to this power? Is he a Man? A Dwarf?”

“Something far stranger. He wore a form that looked like a human child, but he was a man grown.”

“I have heard of creatures such as these, in old tales,” Ecthelion said, frowning. “ _Perian_ , those stories called them, but did not speak of any great deeds or powers.”

“The visions were not clear,” Adûnaphel said apologetically. “Perhaps that is not what he really is, only how he has chosen to appear. There was a name I heard; Kulkodar. I do not know its meaning.”

“A strange name,” Steward Turgon mused. “Yes, very strange. Still you have given us much to think upon, my good woman.” He waved a hand to dismiss her. Adûnaphel made her way back out of the hall, marvelling at her good fortune. She had feared they would insist on pulling back her hood, seeing her face, but they had not. They had listened to a version of the truth that was close enough to it to put considerations of allegiance into their minds. 

She would speak this truth again many times in the days to come, in the ale-houses and inns of the city. She would let gossip carry it, a balm to fearful souls, and Gondor would be one step closer to being theirs. 

\-----

Six weeks had passed since that fateful day when Ori had nearly fallen to his death, and in the intervening time the rest of the eggs had hatched, so that now their small association of friendly dragons and dwarves had gained seven more members on top of those five who began it. Fili had been trying to recruit some of the younger dwarves from the Iron Hills with his brother’s help, but all of them seemed to be too intimidated by the dragonets to want to spend any time with them. This, he felt, was rather a shame. It was lonely now being a prince in a way it hadn’t been before. The easy camaraderie of the Company was being slowly drawn apart by their different jobs, and the newcomers regarded those who’d won the mountain with a too-distant respect. They were friendly enough, but not _friends._

So in the end, when neither Thorin nor Balin had any lessons or work for him, Fili found himself spending a lot of time with the dragonets. At least they always had interesting stories to tell about the First Age, when they had last been alive. And they liked hearing his own stories about the mischief he and Kili had gotten up to when they were younger, and about life in Ered Luin, and about their mother, and in fact about dwarves in general. 

Right now, however, he was teaching them another game.

“It’s called Hnefatafl,” Fili explained to his attentive audience. “You see, the colours of the pieces represent two different armies, and the shapes mean different roles. One side has a King that they’re trying to get off the board, and the other has to capture them.” Ten dragon faces of various sizes, Smaug included, studied the lines of the board that had been chalked onto the floor with interest. 

“An intriguing exercise in strategy,” Glaurung said. His claws clicked on the stone as he padded around, looking at the set-up from various angles. “A mind is kept flexible by playing many such games as this, where I am sure it is as much a matter of judging one’s opponent as simply knowing a list of ways to counter their tactics.”

“I suppose so,” Fili replied. Glaurung tended to be rather intense, and was, he was sure, considerably more intelligent than him. It was rather intimidating. He got on better with Ancalagon, who was more than willing to join him and Kili in ‘frivolous pursuits’. 

“Such exercises are all very well,” Glaurung continued. “But a Prince requires more specific training in the arts of war.”

“I’ve had training,” Fili objected. “Master Dwalin taught me how to wield a blade.”

“He meant tactics,” Raumo said. “Reading a battlefield, leading troops, organising your armies, manoeuvring against your foes.” The pale, cream-coloured dragon sounded exasperated. 

“I’m not going to need anything like that anytime soon though am I,” Fili pointed out. 

“Don’t be so sure,” copper-shaded Calarus replied. 

“What do you mean?” The battle outside Erebor was long over – the orcs had retreated back to the mountains, and from what they heard, were too afraid of Bilbo to dare come back. The elves had gone, running away even before the orcs did. He supposed that at some point they might try and attack again, but it wouldn’t be any time soon surely?

“You ought to have waited until Kulkodar told them,” Heren, scales shining like silver, said disapprovingly. “Too late for that now though.” At this point Fili was used to them using that title, although Bilbo himself didn’t seem to care much either way that he had seen.

“I do not think he will mind it coming from you,” Smaug said. 

“Well, _someone_ tell me,” Fili said, confused and not a little exasperated. 

“There probably will be a war,” Ancalagon admitted. “Although we don’t know yet when it will come. But Bilbo – Kulkodar – made a promise to Smaug that he was going to use all this power the Ring has given him. He wants there to be peace throughout Middle-Earth, so that people can settle their grievances with words rather than resorting to war.”

“That sounds like a good thing though,” Fili said. “So why would there be war if he’s going out of his way to stop it?”

“Because the only way to prevent all wars is to be the ultimate authority,” Glaurung replied. “You have told us how dwarvish arguments are settled; you have Masters of Law who judge these conflicts, and if that is not accepted, then it is taken to the King or Queen. Kulkodar would be that King.”

“Put it this way,” Turcosú said. “If two Kingdoms of Men had a disagreement about where their borders lay, or about their trade, or if one were acting to threaten the other, instead of fighting they would go to Kulkodar and he would sort it all out.”

“Middle-Earth is a very big place,” Fili pointed out. “How is Bilbo going to be everywhere he would need to be? It’s a lot to ask of people to come all the way to Erebor when they have a problem.”

“If he has not considered it already, we were thinking of suggesting the dwarvish model of the courts to him,” Glaurung explained.

“I suppose it would be helpful to have impartial judges,” Fili said doubtfully. “But I can see that certain people might not like the idea. I can’t see any Elf accepting someone else telling them what to do – they’re too used to having their own way.”

“And that is why it will come to war,” Glaurung said. 

“And why I’m going to have to be ready.” Fili nodded. He understood now. Well, Thorin was his uncle and his King, and Bilbo was now both those things just as much. He wanted to help. He wanted to be worthy of being the Prince of Erebor. “Will you teach me what you know?” he asked them. 

“You and your brother both,” Glaurung replied. 

\----

When Dís had finally received the raven-message from her brother, her immediate reaction had been relief. Thorin was alive, and, skimming the letter, so were her sons. They had not perished in dragon’s fire as she had feared. The very fact that they had been able to send a message by this route had indicated their good fortune east of the Misty Mountains. Reading through the letter more carefully however, she had been struck by its strangeness. Thorin spoke of unexpected allies, and of some kind of treaty with Smaug the thief and murderer, which made her sure that somehow she was not understanding the strange code that her brother was using. 

But still. Erebor was theirs. That much had been plain. She had been swift to spread the good news, and mere days after that the first group of dwarves had been ready to leave. Dís had told them about the dragon, choosing her words carefully, but with Erebor at the end of their journey few cared. Of those who had gathered outside the gates of Ered Luin, most had either fled Erebor all those years ago, or were the children of those who had. They had packed light for the journey – the general agreement had been that whatever goods and belongings they owned could be sent along later, for they had no time waste being slowed down by wagons. They had left Erebor with nothing, and they would return with nothing. 

Of course they’d been limited in their numbers by what was practical. They were not an army, and Dís had learned from that first exodus how hard it was to feed a great host. So, she had decided, they would set out in groups of two hundred, leaving two weeks apart, so that they would not strip the towns they passed through bare of food. She herself had left with the first of those parties, along with the families of Thorin’s Company. 

Now, four and a half months later, after a perilous crossing at a little-used pass over the Misty Mountains near that Elven stronghold Rivendell, and shielded from orcish attack by their own numbers, they had arrived at the Long Lake, and were making their way towards the Lonely Mountain. 

Those rare travellers and traders who had been to Laketown in the years since the dragon had brought back tales of a great, bare desolation in the lands around the mountain, the old fields, meadows and groves lying dead and barren, but now she saw that this was no longer the case. Green grass was spreading out like a carpet from the foothills of the mountain, and sapling pines grew in clusters upon the spurs that cupped ruined Dale and the Great Gate. The air felt fresh and clean, as though spring would come early this year. Even the forest trail through Mirkwood had not been as perilous as they had feared, and though at times they had felt eyes watching them, nothing had ever come of it. 

Confident that there would have been Ravens about watching the approach to the Gate, Dís led her two hundred up to the new-built doors, admiring the clean stone-work of the outer wall and the overlook above, seeing the work of her brother’s hands in little embellishments here and there. As they came nearer, a dwarf she did not know standing watch shouted to those inside, and the gates swung slowly outwards to welcome her. 

There was her brother, standing waiting for her. Five months growth had made of his shorn beard something that now could be braided, and in shining mithril mail he looked every bit the King she’d always known he could be. Fili and Kili were beside him, looking no different than when they had left her over a year ago. She grabbed Thorin tight in a bone-crushing hug as soon as he was near enough, hearing him laugh. 

“Idiot,” she muttered. “I’m so glad to see you.”

Her sons were the next to be embraced, to their expected, fond protests. Blinking, she did her best not to let tears of happiness fall. It had been so long. So long since she had seen them. So long since they had had hope. Now they had Erebor, and there had been none of the hefty price she had feared. 

Eventually though Dís did have to let her boys go. It was at that point she noticed the other person standing there, a little off to the side. He was a strange creature, a little shorter than a typical dwarf with curly brown hair and odd golden eyes the colour of the sun. He wore armour that bore her brother’s makers-mark, and a horned crown. Thorin’s letter had spoken of finding his One, of making him Prince-Consort. She had even guessed from his rather sparse details that he was referring to the mysterious burglar that Tharkûn had promised to find them, but she hadn’t expected him to be quite so unusual. 

“Ah,” Thorin said, seeing where she was looking. “May I introduce my sanâzyung, Bilbo Baggins. Bilbo, my sister Dís.”

“It is good to meet you,” Bilbo said, smiling. “Thorin has been fretting about when you would arrive for weeks. Quite apart from seeing you again, he also has a request he’d like to make of you.”

“Oh?” Dís asked. From the tone of voice she could tell this request would be nothing ill. “And what request might that be?”

Her brother almost blushed. “I wanted you to officiate at our wedding,” he mumbled. After a moment’s astonishment, Dís laughed. 

“How long has it been, months?” she said. “And you’ve put your wedding off for all that time just so I could do it? Thorin, really, you are simply ridiculous.”

“Sister,” Thorin said, looking even more embarrassed. His consort only grinned wider. 

“Of course I’ll do it,” she said. “But first I think there are a lot of things you need to explain. What’s all this I hear about a dragon?”

That was to be a very eventful conversation.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a wizard has a Plan, we meet a certain young man, and elves start to cause trouble again.
> 
> (Apologies for the very long wait between chapters. I have a job now, so my writing time has become somewhat limited.)

Dusk had fallen hours past, and the eye of the moon had closed and shed no light. It was a good omen to fall on this year’s Long Night, and thus upon the rule of Bolg, new High-Chief of the Mountains. His father had earned a worthy death in the open lands to the south following the orders of the One, and it was no dishonour upon him or his line that it had been all for nothing. The People were used to having their achievements thrown down by the children of the Light, so, unlike Men or Elves, they did not measure their worth merely in their victories.

Now though, there was a new power in the Darkness. One stronger even than the Great Eye. Bolg himself had received the honour of being present at the moment of their battle, watching the new spirit triumph, and speaking to that lofty creature himself. Bolg had shown the new spirit the respect that strength was due, that a God was due, and promised that the People would come when called as all the old and holy laws demanded. All in all, it had made a fine start to his reign.

Beneath Gundabad, in the places Mahal’s burrowing-worms had carved from natural sacred stone, the many tribes of the People now gathered. The Long Night had come, and with it the time to honour the Gods. But with the coming of the tribes had also come whispers of words issued forth from the Honoured Dead themselves, words of the new spirit, instructions for what name to put into the chants and calls, the name to underpin the beats of the drums that summoned the attention of the Gods. Kulkodar, it was spoken, Father of Fire-Drakes. And thus the argument that now prevented the ceremonies from going ahead. Were the gathered God’s-Honoured to pull down the statues and icons of the Great Eye and replace them with the symbols of the new God? If so, what were those symbols to be? They had but a name, and the connection within the pantheon to the spirits of Living Stone, but that was not enough to satisfy the honour of a God.

It had come to much violence already, for such was the way of the People, but Bolg had no patience for this disturbance of the first Long Night under his rule. Unfortunately, neither did he possess an answer, as would be expected of a High-Chief. Instead he prayed to Kulkodar to send the Honoured Dead who walked the Mountains to his halls to guide them.

It seemed for some time that the question would come to out-right war in the tunnels before those prayers were answered. A messenger came running from the Great Gate, pushing her way through the crowd with growls and swipes of claws, yelling, and after her came cold, and silence, and the awe-inspiring, bone-chilling presence that marked the Lords of the Dead.

The gathered tribes parted for Him like a herd of deer before a wolf. Cries and tumult stopped utterly.

“Bolg, Chief of Gundabad and the Mountain Clans,” He of the Honoured Dead said, in the Black Speech of Mordor. “I am Hoarmûrath, of the Nine. I bring greetings, blessings, and tidings from Kulkodar.”

“I bid you welcome, great one,” Bolg replied, rising from his seat and bowing his head. The Chieftains of the People knelt only to true Gods, not to mere Kings like Men did, but they knew how to show respect. “We had hoped to see your presence here on this night.” He spoke in the same tongue, although the words did not come as easily as those of the northern dialect. Southern Black Speech had been more familiar in his youth, for his father had always used it, but Azog had not spent much time with his son after Bolg had reached the age of maturity. It would not have been expected of a Chief.

“And yet you haven’t put away the symbols of the Eye,” Hoarmûrath-King noted. “although you saw Kulkodar’s power upon the field of battle.”

“It is a matter for the God’s-Honoured,” Bolg replied. “Not for one such as I. I may only advise.” From their own places, he saw those he named flinch.

“I understand,” Hoarmûrath said, and the priests relaxed a little. “They cannot know what I have not yet told them. That is why I am here, after all.”

“By your command, great one,” Bolg said.

Hoarmûrath approached, climbing the stairs of the dais towards the great shrines that had been set up where once the stone-burrowers had crafted the images of their ancestors. He paused for a moment, regarding the iron Eye glowing eternally red-hot from the brazier at its back. Then he drew the sword at his waist and brought it down in a great arc, shearing straight through the symbol of the Old God.

“No more,” he said. “Mairon is gone. He has been brought low. He is no longer worthy of your worship.”

“What is Kulkodar’s symbol?” Akûl God’s-Honoured asked, sidling forward. “So we can worship him as we should.”

The Honoured Dead made a gesture and spoke words of power. Writhing like serpents, the sundered loops of iron were pulled into a new pattern. With its tips sky-ward, the crescent moon of horns, and within its encircling grasp, a flame.

“Bow to this in the Long Night,” Hoarmûrath-King told the tribes. “And when the call comes, as it shall, be ready to march to war.”

\----

Khamûl was not displeased with their progress. Many months had passed now since the others of the Nine were sent out, riders to bear word, and if perhaps what had been done might not be counted much amongst the short-lived races of Middle-Earth, that mattered little. They were not mortals, that lengths of years should concern them, and nor were their opponents. This was not a war that would be fought too soon; it would not start until each side thought their advantage best. For Lord Kulkodar that meant waiting, as much as it did for the Istari and the Elves.

Building allies, as Kulkodar would call them, or servants, as Khamûl would, was a gentle and delicate work. Thus far Hoarmûrath had been doing well in this in the lands northwards. The Mountain Clans were beginning to bow to their new god as they ought, and at the meeting in the Long Night Lord Mairon’s symbol had been cast down and a new one raised in its place. It was not that orcs were fickle; merely that they respected strength. And Kulkodar had shown himself to be the stronger. Even were it not for the ever-growing respect Khamûl had for him as a worthy lord, he would have been forced to admit the truth in that moment all those months ago at the close of the battle; that the Halfling had truly proved himself master of the One and Mairon’s equal. So that was the success of one, out of the seven who had gone.

At the end of the Gold Road to the east, Ji Indûr had been equally fortunate. It had always been the Nine who had served as emissaries to that land rather than any man or orc, for those of Rhûn were a great people both in number and in might, and rightfully proud with it. They would not have bowed to any other than a great spirit, a King of old, a glorious ancestor of whom they might at least say ‘well, is he not one of us? Does he not have the right to rule and command us?’ Such had Khamûl been to them, and such had been Ji; feared and loved and respected in equal measure. It was perhaps not so much to wonder at, that the Emperor of Rhûn had favoured Ji over whomever Mairon had undoubtedly sent, for all that the Nazgûl spoke of a new and unfamiliar god working the will of Heaven.

In Khand, Khamûl knew, they would not have been so lucky, and with such vast and guarded distances to travel it had not been worth the effort to send another of their number there. Khand bordered Núrn, and Núrn was sworn to Mordor without question. Of the many tribes of the Haradwaith however, there was more to dare and to be gained. Without Mairon to force them into line they had returned to their old ways, Kings warring with Kings, looking only inward rather than outward to the nations of Men under Ilúvatar that rested too far to the north to be of overmuch interest. Mairon was not the power he had been, and if he wanted their armies to go to war for him, he would have to win them again. He could promise much with the fertile plains of Núrn behind him, but a taste of freedom was a sweet thing, too sweet to easily give up. Ren was asking less of them than the banner of Mordor would.

As for Umbar, well, the Black Nùmenorians had ever been the Nazgûl’s kin. That spoke for much. Akhôrahil had secrets and power and history, and was willing to share them rather than hoard as Mairon had wished him to in the past. Their border clashes with Gondor grew ever more tense, and the smallest advantage was worth both thanks and loyalty. It would come to war there perhaps sooner than it would in Erebor, Khamûl thought. If so, Lord Kulkodar would want to act and return peace to the world, but the path he would choose to do so was yet unknown to him. The Halfling thought in ways too alien for even the Lieutenant of the Nine, although he was learning.

As for Gondor, well, rumour worked its subtle ways throughout that land. Adûnaphel might be known for her more common silences, but when words needed to come forth from her dead lips they were silver and honey. A little after her audience with the Steward, the Grey Wizard Mithrandir had come to the White City, but although he had been vocal in speaking out against what she had said he had already been too late. The promise of a saviour had taken hold, and all of Minas Tirith was abuzz with gossip. By that time Adûnaphel had left, and gone forth on the south-road to Dol Amroth, and the name of Kulkodar rode in her wake.

The establishment of their power closer to home had not been forgotten in all this either. The building work in Dale was proceeding to schedule, and some of the Men of the Lake were beginning to move their homes back to their city of old under the current leadership of Bard the Bowman. The Master had remained in Laketown to better manage his profits from the trade-routes which ran through there. Bard likely had not been his first choice, as it would not have been Khamûl’s given that the man had been willing to fight alongside the elves, but he was popular with the ordinary townspeople and at least so far had not caused any trouble. As to the elves themselves, or at least those of Mirkwood, Balin had organised an envoy to be sent to them to further discuss the terms of the current tentative peace. Dis would not be the only dwarf to come by that road, and those who came later would be travelling in small groups whose potential disappearance might never after be discovered. It was a diplomacy Khamûl did not think much of.

Dis herself had been much as Khamûl had expected of one of the Royal Line of Durin – strong-willed and stubborn, but in the end amenable to reason when put forth by one whom she trusted. In this case it had been her sons, the young princes. It seemed the alliance which had been growing between them and the Uruloki had born early fruit. Dis could have been troublesome, and that had been a potential disaster neatly averted.

Not all the events of these past months had been in their favour, however. Curunir the White had turned Uvatha away from Rohan, the Istari too strong a threat for one to handle. And in the mines and workshops of Erebor, things were not as they should have been. Many dwarves had come to the Mountain as word trickled out to them that it could be a home for their kind once more. Some had turned away when the truth about the treaty was made known to them, but their number was not great. Mahal had made a sensible people, after all. But some, as Khamûl only suspected but could not prove, chose to remain with malice in their hearts. Whether they would ever gather the will or critical mass of numbers and wrath to act against their King, of a line that still laid claim to Durin’s blood, he could not yet say, but in small things and whispers in dark corners they made themselves known, in the way of a slow poison acting upon the one who had foolishly imbibed it. Missing tools, delays, faults in machinery, errors in mine-maps… too easily put aside as ill-chance. Khamûl knew better. Millennia of experience taught him better. There was a faction in Erebor that abhorred the dragon, and more than that, abhorred Kulkodar, broker of the truce and father of fire.

Khamûl had no intention of allowing such a group to continue their existence. A meagre threat they might be but yet still a threat. He was not a creature much made for mercy, unlike his master, and nor had he served him long enough to learn it. It might not be to Kulkodar’s liking, but Khamûl would do what he had to do to protect the tentative empire that was still being forged.

\----

In the high tower of Orthanc, in wide green Isengard, Saruman the Wise regarded his latest experiment. As all those which had come before it, it was but a simple band of gold unadorned with either jewels or runes, for he was Maiar and cared little for unnecessary ostentation. Sauron had needed no gems to hold the power he poured into his craft, nor would it be to his advantage to do so, for stones could be split or pried loose from their housings even despite the strength that they held. Beauty was weakness in the making of Rings. Nor would Saruman be any the lesser of one whom, many Ages of the earth before, he might have called cousin.

Still, for all that he had gleaned in doing this, all his gathered knowledge of the craft from sources both ancient and far-flung, he had not yet been able to create a ring to rival the One. The battle upon the bare plains at Erebor had proven that much. That ring, which had served him well in expanding his powers during the Council’s assault on Dol Guldur, had failed utterly when faced with the One. That the song of its magic had been woven so greatly into his spells at the time had meant they were sundered and useless when its influence was banished. He had been forced to fall back on the reserves of his strength and thus allowed the Halfling creature too great an advantage.

In some ways, however, Saruman considered that day more of a boon than a disaster. Lost for so long, beyond even the reach of the Palantir to discover and revealing only darkness when he looked, at last the One Ring had come again to light. It might have fallen into the hands of a creature who was not worthy of it, who had become the controlled instead of the controller, but it did not have to stay that way. Once the Halfling had been defeated, the Ring would be his for the taking, and then he would be able to use it as it ought to be used.

But first, there would be a war. Rohan had bowed to his wishes easily enough, following the example of its King, a pitiful and weak-willed man who had at first been reticent to begin the long-term preparations for war that would be needed in the days to come. It had required Saruman’s magic to teach him better. Fengel would not now pose any further problems. Mithrandir however was not proving as successful preparing Gondor for the return of its King, a fact which did not entirely surprise him. Olorin had never been sufficiently decisive, and his machinations did not always come well to fruition. The Elves would play their part, but Men… Men were weak. Saruman was not about to trust to their strength to do what must be done.

One thing that the Enemy had succeeded in, quite apart from his apprentice Sauron’s skill at smithcraft, was in crafting a tool for waging war. The orcs were numerous, fast-breeders, and easily susceptible to the influence of magic. They were not perfect however. They feared light, were inclined to cowardice, and had no formal training in the arts of battle. Saurman had a mind to change that. This Halfling would have orcs behind him when he made his move, and what better shield for the forces of good than an army of the expendable. Already he had given commands in Fengel’s name for raiding parties of Rohirrim to go into the mountains and drag back orclings to Isengard. It would be better to have young ones for his experiments, he had decided. More malleable.

As to precisely what traits to bestow upon them and how, well, he had certain ideas along those lines as well. They had been made with magic and might, in times long past, and both would serve well in the long months and years ahead. Nor would it be the first time that orcs had bred with Men.

\----

Estel was too young for his Ada to tell him anything important, which he felt was unfair in the way that grown-ups were always unfair, but he didn’t need anyone to say it out loud to know that there was something wrong. Ada had gone away for a long time, leaving him with Estel’s older brothers (although they weren’t actually related because Estel was adopted, which meant he didn’t have pointy ears and he was clumsy and grubby all the time), and when he had come back Ada was very sad. He hadn’t smiled in the way he used to whenever they had parties in the halls, or when the bards played music, and he wrote lots of long letters to his daughter, who Estel had never met, and who was staying with family in woods far to the east.

Estel tried very hard to find out why all of this was, which at first meant asking, and then meant hiding and trying to listen in on conversations, but no-one ever told him the real reason, and even though he was going to grow up to be a Ranger like his birth father and his mother he wasn’t actually very good at hiding yet. Lindir, who was the Steward and looked after the food and helped guests and generally organised things, kept finding him and dragging him away back to his lessons.

That had been another thing that had changed since Ada came back from his journey. Before, the only things he’d had to learn had been to read and write, and aside from that he would just ask questions about whatever things sounded interesting, like the history behind the songs that were sung in the halls at night, or the meanings of paintings or statues, or little bits of wood-craft here and there. Now though he had an actual tutor, who made him sit down with dull books full of names of important people who lived very far away. Estel didn’t like it. It was _boring_. He didn’t understand why Ada wanted him to know about any of this, or what it had to do with him. He was a _Ranger_. A Dunedain of the north. He was going to do what his mother did right now; lead the Dunedain in protecting everyone from bad things like wolves and orcs - he knew it was an important job because doing it meant his mother had to go all over the country and wasn’t able to come and see him very often.

Some of it wasn’t too bad though. Apart from names, Estel was also being taught about battles, and that was much more exciting. But even here his tutor would make things much less interesting than he felt they ought to be. It was the way he talked about it, somehow managing to make everything dry and dusty and just _terrible_. Tactics and ‘then this unit moved here and did this’ and somehow Estel found his attention drifting even though it never did when the bards told these tales in the evenings in front of flickering fires.

He did try his best to do as he was told and remember everything, and then he had to write essays about it and think about what he might have done in battle if he had been the commander, or what he might have done to settle a dispute between two families. The last part at least made sense. Mother told him that sometimes people would fall out in the towns and villages, sometimes people from two different, important families and then she or one of the other Rangers would have to go and 'bang some heads together' and sort it all out. Estel didn't think his tutor approved of that solution though, because he wrote disapproving comments all over Estel's essay after he wrote about it. 

All of this had to be for a reason. It had to be leading up to something. Estel just couldn't figure out what that something was, and no-one wanted to tell him. Not even Ada. Whatever it was, surely that meant it couldn't be good. 

\----

As they had all known it would, the mountain was slowly coming back to life. Ondolisse felt that she was present at an important moment in history, there as though to bear witness to the return of the Kingdom of Erebor which for so long had been laid low and scattered. Now in small groups, those dwarves were coming back, following the example of Dis and of the Iron Hills. They filled up the empty rooms and halls and made light and music. They crafted clever things with their hands from the dull metals that were their kindred and birthright, although she, like her own kin, was less pleased that they delved also for silver and gold, or for gems, even despite the tithe to the Uruloki.

But it was an agreement made under the influence of Kulkodar, who _felt_ like a brother-Maiar, even if he was only the borrowed kind of one, and it would take time for the substance of him to become something greater. It was already beginning to happen though. His power spread out through earth and air and water, a power of birth and growing things. Neither Dwarves nor Men had yet noticed the increased rate of conception which it had caused, but that was evidence that could only go unnoticed for so long.

All these months of peace had lead to a certain amount of goodwill between those who now shared the mountain, and Ondolissë, like her siblings, had made good use of the opportunities presented them. For her own part she had a keen interest in knowledge, though not in the hungry, weaponised way of Glaurung for whom every little fact or secret was a blade to be spat like fire from the tongue, but in a rather more abstract fashion. Her current friendship with the young dwarf-princes allowed her to glean much more intimate experience of their kind than books or second-hand accounts ever might, and though in the past, before her first death, she would not have thought them a people worth knowing, time and acquaintance had changed that.

At the moment, she was taking advantage of that friendship to attend Kulkodar and Thorin’s court, sticking to the shadows as was her habit, helped by her colouring if not by her growing size. At the current time neither King nor Consort were dealing with doings of much importance to the realm as a whole, although certainly it was important in the more personal scheme of things. To be precise; they were hearing the complaints of those who felt their grievances too great for any but a ruler to pass judgement upon, and as a Prince in the making, Fíli was observing it too.

The current petitioner was no-one Ondolissë knew, but keen ears had picked out their name as Aslâm, and from the dwarf’s garb, she was one recently arrived in Erebor, and had not yet shaken the dust of the trail from her boots to be replaced by dust of mine or workshop.

“King Thorin,” the dwarf said, “I have come before you to ask that you repair an injustice.”

Thorin, crowned with iron, a new circlet to replace that which Ondolissë knew to be lost beneath the Misty Mountains, nodded to her and motioned for her to continue. He too, like them all, was changing, becoming more solemn, more opaque, although judging by the words of his nephews he always had been set apart from the others of the Company by the burden of Erebor-lost. Now his burden was the burden of all Kings.

“It concerns elves,” Aslâm said, and a murmur went through those who were watching. Ondolissë felt her own spinal plates rise and flare outwards without conscious control. She had old, bad memories from her last life that spoke of good reason to fear the hate of the elves, and if she had not yet been hatched to see it, she knew all too well the fate that had befallen their first-born sibling. “Specifically, the elves of Eryn Lasgalen.”

“Legolas,” Thorin said, sneering. “I find myself not surprised. What foul acts have he and his kind done now?”

“I know that after the battle that occurred here you ordered Legolas Thranduillion to give safe passage to dwarves that wanted to travel the Mirkwood Road,” Aslâm began to explain. “But from what I myself experienced, the elves are becoming more and more of an obstacle. When I first entered the forest with my party, we were aware of being watched from the shadows and the trees, and the elves made sure enough to let us know who those eyes belonged too. Then, later, when we were attacked by the giant spiders that even now still roam the forest, although we all knew they were there the elves made no move to help us. Thankfully we suffered only minor injuries, but it could have been much worse.”

“You were right to bring this to us,” Kulkodar said, his eyes blazing golden and waves of indignation pouring from him. “With Mairon gone there shouldn’t be any spiders as far north as that. It would not be the first time the elves used those creatures as a weapon they don’t have to dirty their hands with. This is not what they promised.”

“None of us should be surprised that elves break their word,” Thorin said with contempt. “It seems they force our hand.”

“Not, I hope, to outright war,” Kulkodar said quickly, laying a hand on his partner’s. He turned his attention to the young dwarf standing on the dais behind their chairs. “Fíli, consider your lessons. What would you do?”

Fíli looked startled to be asked, but he regained his poise and confidence quickly enough. Ondolissë craned her neck forward, certain that he would have noticed her presence here and wanting to give him her support.

“We cannot do nothing,” Fíli began, “or they will grow bolder and start to work against us more openly. We know that war will come again one day, but I know that all of us would rather put that day off as long as we possibly can. We have to show King Legolas that we know that he isn’t dealing fairly with our people. We need to let him know that he is being watched, and that we are prepared to do something about it.

He paused, considering further. “I know that Dwalin has been trained our new Dragon Guard,” he said. Others in the hall were quick to grasp him meaning, and murmurs of agreement arose. Ondolissë had seen their new elite sparring for herself, and she remembered enough of war from her previous life to know they were very able fighters. Most of them had come from the Iron Hills and had gained their experience in orcish raids.

“A fine suggestion Fíli,” Thorin said, and Fíli glowed under the praise. “We shall ask Dwalin to assemble a contingent immediately. He shall go and have words with _King_ Legolas, without fear that our messenger should go 'missing'.”

As others left to carry these commands and the next petitioner stepped forward, Ondolissë made her way silently from the hall a well. She had something to think about.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is talk of smith-craft, Ondolisse goes travelling, Legolas is trying to live up to the memory of his father, and Estel learns an uncomfortable - if slightly misinterpreted - truth. 
> 
> Warnings: ablism from the elves

_Autumn 2947_

Kulkodar looked concerned when she presented her idea to him. 

“It's too dangerous,” he said. “I managed to destroy all of those dragon-bows the elves brought with them, but that doesn't mean they don't have more somewhere. And you're still young. Not yet full grown. Your armour hasn't had a chance to become thick and strong, or to incorporate the hard gems of the Hoard.”

“I know all of that,” Ondolissë replied. “I have considered the risks, but I want to go anyway.”

Bilbo looked all the more uneasy. “It isn't really me that you should be asking,” he said. “Smaug is your, well, guardian is I suppose the best way to put it, rather than myself.”

“He is my sibling,” Ondolissë corrected him. “And I owe you both an equal debt for singing me back into the world. Your words carry equal weight. And it is you who are King under the Mountain here, you and your dwarf. This armed embassy is sent under your authority.”

The hobbit sighed. “I don't want to say that you can't go. I don't know that I have the right. But Ondolissë, if Smaug hears that I've said you can go haring off into the midst of an army of elves, even the Ring won't save me.” 

“I have made up my mind. I am very firm about this,” Ondolissë said. Kulkodar looked as though he was about to protest again, but then stopped, head tilted on one side as he listened to a quiet whisper that only he could hear. “What does the One say?” she asked, curiously. 

“It has... an idea.” Kulkodar said, cautiously. “It sounds an interesting one, but I think it's one that needs talked over with more than just the two of us.”

“Who do we need?”

“I think... Thorin, Smaug and Khamûl.”

Ondolissë nodded. “Then we shall find them with all haste. You certainly have me intrigued.”

Within the hour they had gathered their small council in the Hoard-Hall, which Smaug had returned to now with no intention of ever leaving it any time soon. He was lazing half-buried in the gold which lay piled meters deep like a scree slope, ascending up into darkness. 

“It seems you have yet another proposal of interest,” Smaug said, the tip of his tail flicking in curiosity. He smiled down at the halfling without teeth. “Or rather, the Ring does. And may I guess by those you have called here that it involves smith-craft?”

“You guess correctly,” Kulkodar replied. “I suppose I should start by explaining that this all came about because Ondolissë asked me if she could accompany Dwalin and the others to Eryn Lasgalen.”

“And you said no of course,” Smaug said, glaring at her. 

“I didn't say anything either way,” Kulkodar said. “Although I said you wouldn't like it.”

“It _would_ be unwise,” Khamûl said, offering his own opinion. “The Uruloki are our greatest weapon for the war that is to come. Thus far no others know of them. We cannot allow even the suspicion of your existence before we are ready.”

“I am not a dead slave, to be ordered about by you,” Ondolissë hissed at him, though she regretted the unkindness of her words immediately afterwards. 

Thorin spoke before Khamûl could. “And I suppose at some point you might have seen fit to ask me _my_ permission,” he said. “Is it not by my order that Dwalin goes at all?” 

“This is why it's better we have you all here to discuss it,” Kulkodar said, forestalling the quickly developing argument. “The One has been talking to me about ring-craft. Forging.”

“Has it now?” Smaug asked, with a dangerous politeness. 

“I know what you're thinking, and I hope you all know me better than that,” Kulkodar said. “I've accepted the Nazgûl's service, but that doesn't mean I want any more of them. I don't want slaves, and I've told the Ring that in the past. It claims those who would take up a ring I helped make wouldn't necessarily have to be.”

“A curious idea,” Ondolissë said. “But the whole Ring business was after my first death. I don't know quite what advantage it would be, to make more of them.”

“It is not only control of our actions that the Nine yield,” Khamûl said. “They allow communication, whatever the distance. They act as foci to amplify our powers. They bind us together, so that we are stronger as one song than apart. Not that the forging of them is any small task.”

“And your Ring suggested to you, what?” Thorin asked. “That you create more rings for all of these newborn dragons?”

“That was rather the long and short of it,” Bilbo admitted. “Although for the actual forging, I would say you know more about it than I do.”

“So if you can watch me because I am wearing a ring, I won't really be in any danger,” Ondolissë pointed out, in what seemed to her to be a quite reasonable fashion. “If anything goes wrong, you will know at once and you can come rescue me.”

“Or avenge you,” Smaug said, a clear warning. Still, he was not really any older than her in the metaphysical sense, so she didn't see much need to listen other than with a vague kind of respect one ought to give their self-singer. Respect was all very well, but it wasn't going to stop her flying her own path.

“You think much of me,” Thorin was saying, “if you believe I can forge rings of power. I know runes suitable for use in smith-craft, but rings were always elvish work, not that of dwarves.”

“The One has the knowledge, and you have the experience,” Bilbo replied. “All we need is to put them together. I have every faith in you.”

“We shall see,” Thorin said, sounding unconvinced, but at the same time secretly pleased. “Although I cannot say you will be very impressed by the first of my efforts. I have no doubt that this is a craft which will take a great deal of practise, more than most things I have learned in my years.”

“Then it is decided,” Ondolissë said. “You shall make my ring first, or at least something which will suffice for our needs, and then I will go with Dwalin to Mirkwood.”

“It seems I cannot stop you,” Smaug sneered. “So go with luck and don't get shot.”

\----

The first Tauriel heard of the newest calamity was the message sent by one of the Forest Guard on watch at the borders of the forest. It was written in the code she was still so familiar with, but even after parsing it out, it had been put down in some haste and was therefore not quite so clear as it might have been. But one thing was certain – a large party of dwarves was heading their way, and they were armed. Not an army by any means, and it was far too soon for that to have even been possible, but nothing good either. She went immediately to her King. 

“I suspected something like this,” Legolas said when she told him the news, eyes fever-bright, although the last effects of _that_ grievous illness had at least left him now. The last physical effects – the memories still haunted him, as they haunted her. “We cannot allow them to see our preparations. Have the great-bows moved out into hiding places in the forest. Make sure our people who are training here are well out of sight, with excuses for their presence well prepared if necessary. We cannot forget that damn dragon still lives.”

“It shall be done as you command,” Tauriel said. She hesitated in describing the next part of the report to him. “The Guard also reported that she saw a winged shape in the sky overhead,” she said finally. Legolas' eyes narrowed. She saw the fingers of his hand go white gripping the smooth wood of the throne. 

“I dream of it sometimes,” he said quietly. So quietly that only her elven hearing allowed her to pick it up. It would have been inaudible to a Man. “The Greenwood burning. Dragon-fire. I remember my father, I remember what he told me about them, how it haunted him, how even as a child he would never let me touch his bare skin for fear I would feel through the glamour...”

Tauriel kept silent – what could she possibly say? There were enough of their people who had that much in common with the late King, and most of them were still in the infirmary even now. Those who were well enough to walk were rarely seen. Weaving a glamour was not such quick work, and they were hard to look upon. Hard to bear the pity and instinctive revulsion in others' eyes, she was sure, and even harder to look in the harsh silver of a mirror. Some had already faded away, in the way of elves with broken spirits. 

“So Smaug has left the mountain,” Legolas said, no longer speaking just to himself. “I had hoped the wounds we dealt his wings would have kept him grounded longer.” He had a look of fear and utter determination. “We must have faith that they are only here to talk for now, even if it is the kind of talking that is but veiled threat. Well, who would expect anything different from Evil? Still, it means we must only be all the more careful. The foul wyrm is a weapon we cannot let them use.”

“I understand, my King,” Tauriel replied. The same fear was in her. They would fight, they would strike back, but not now, not yet. The time would come, but until that day both patience and humility would be required. It was not the way of the elves to abandon all pride and dignity and bow to the wishes of dark and malevolent things, but nor did they spill their own blood carelessly. 

Legolas dismissed her with a nod and a gesture, and she went to make the necessary preparations. It did not take long. They were now in a state of almost constant readiness, knowing how well those who followed the Enemy's ways loved tricks and strikes that could not be anticipated. For the rest of the day Eryn Lasgalen was a hive of activity, and then it was still, and quiet, and with plenty of time to spare before the dwarves and the dragon arrived. 

The band of dwarves came marching up the Forest Road shining in the sun. They were armed and armoured, with axes slung over their shoulders, and their faces made blank masks by their covering helms. Tauriel was at the gate waiting for them, and her eyes went quickly to the skies, searching with a hawk's keenness. There. A dark shape obscured by the sun, but she could make out the form of wings and tail well enough. Her fingers itched to nock an arrow to her bow. But as the shape swooped lower, confusion took over. It was not sized as she had expected, so that whilst she had still though it far off, it suddenly resolved before her eyes as just skimming above the tops of the trees, darting over the river like a swallow and coming to light on the overlook before the gates, finding handholds for balance on the carved pillars, the claws of its feet scoring the stone. 

It was not Smaug. 

It was a dragon, certainly, and a fire-drake at that, but it was very small compared to the monster that had swept over their lines at the Battle of Erebor. That still left it larger than any horse, its head sitting at her height again above her, dappled with grey scales and eyes green like witch-fire. But how could it be here, how could it even exist? All the other fire-drakes save Smaug had been killed long ago, and they were in any case not the sort of creatures that could breed any more than Balrogs or Istari. 

“Greetings,” the dragon said, as the dwarvish contingent marched over the bridge to join them. “I am Ondolissë, currently of Erebor.”

“Tauriel, Commander of the Forest Guard,” she replied, not letting her surprise show. Commander of more than that besides, but such secrets must at all costs be kept from the creatures now darkening their doors. 

“Yes, I know of your name,” the dragon was saying. “I am told you spoke wisely of caution in the days before the Battle. I am glad to see someone reasonable sent to greet us; I think that is a good sign.”

Tauriel had no wish to be labelled reasonable by a wyrm, but if whatever reputation she had amongst their enemies enticed them to let down their guard, then by all means she would have them think whatever they would of her. “It's a pity we didn't know to expect you,” she said, rather than the more impetuous words that would have sprung first to her tongue if she had let her anger get the better of her. “Otherwise your welcome would have been warmer. Of course we had some word of you, but not from you yourselves. We might have had you as simple travellers.”

Of course no-one would ever have mistaken such an armed band for any such thing, and it was probably too much to expect that such foul beings would feel any shame in the manner of their coming, as silent as ambushers. The dragon's eyes narrowed slightly though at her words, as though they held some different meaning to them. 

One of the dwarves – a commander of some sort by the ornamentation of his armour – came forward, stepping around the trailing edge of the wyrm's wing. As he pulled the helmet from his head, Tauriel realised she recognised him. It was one of Thorin's Company, one of that group who had been found wandering in the forest like a band of thieves. She was not surprised to see him here. Natural, that they had been made Lieutenants now that the Evil they served had expanded his power. 

“It's travellers we're here to speak about,” he said, with a typical dwarvish sneer. “And not with a Commander either. It's your King we'd have words with.”

Anger did spur her tongue then. “And if I were to bar the gate and refuse?” she snapped.

The dwarf looked meaningfully at the dragon. “I don't think that would be wise, now would it lass?” 

She managed at least to hold back the shiver of fear. It had been dry of late, without even the hint of rain. Perfect weather for fire. 

“Be welcome in our halls then Master Dwarf,” she said, with a sharp and perfunctory bow. “And speak whatever threats you have come here to deliver.”

\----

His hand – or rather, the emptiness that had taken the place of it – pained him at odd times. Phantom aches, independent of any outside source or provocation. Even Dorwinion wine did little to numb it, and since neither did it numb anything else he might wish to be rid of in the long hours of the night, he had long since abandoned it. The scent only served to remind him of his father. 

Many things reminded Legolas of his father. It seemed impossible to escape the memories of him. Every corridor where once they had walked together held the echoes of his footsteps, every room that had once held him Legolas entered half-expecting to see him there, every tiny detail of kingship was made alien by grief because Thranduil his father was gone, and everything was changed by his lack. Now Legolas Thranduillion sat atop a throne that he had hoped never to take and tried his best to do as his father might have wished. 

What his father would have wished here he had little need to guess. Thranduil had been wise to the false and treacherous nature of the Naugrim, to the evil that lurked in the heart of every one of them. So it had been in Doriath all those years ago, when they had turned against Ilúvatar's true children, and so it was now. Legolas clenched his fist upon the arm of his father's throne and choked down seething anger at the sight of the creatures that now profaned his halls. 

The Naugrim perhaps he _could_ have borne, for his Kingdom's sake, but the dragon... The very unholy Fire of Morgoth, greedy and cunning, in the halls of Eryn Lasgalen, in the Greenwood. 

With a twitch of his finger, if he so chose, he could have a hundred archers in here with bows drawn ready to skewer this so-called delegation where they stood. The eyes of the Woodland Guard were keen, keen enough to hit the gaps between even the well-crafted plates of Naugrim armour, keen enough to target the eyes and tender places of a wyrm. It was a very tempting thought. They had not dealt near enough death on the slopes of Erebor to pay back their enemy for his father's murder, not to mention the murder of half the King's-Guard. He met Tauriel's eyes as she approached at the head of the party and saw his own righteous anger reflected back at him. 

The leash of common sense stopped him though. A ruler was always in need of good sense, Thranduil had always told him that. He could not allow himself to be mastered by his passions to the point that he forgot what was good for his people. And to kill this little wyrm, these Naugrim, would be to invite the disaster that his father had feared when he turned away from Erebor over two hundred years ago. The Greenwood would burn under Smaug's rage. And worse than the dragon, the creature that now bore Sauron's Ring would sunder these halls and bury their legacy beneath the earth. 

Legolas forced himself to be calm. “Commander Tauriel,” he said, an invitation for her to begin the formalities. 

“My King,” she replied, bowing. “I bring before you Dwalin, Captain of the Dragon Guard of Erebor, and Ondolissë,” she gestured to the wyrm who was perched on the walkway like a lizard on top of a fence. He regarded it with disgust. Grey-mottled like stone, it had the gangly build of youth, its wings too large for it almost. It sat with its talons wrapped around the carved wood of the walkway to keep its balance. There was a dull glint of metal banding one of them. He looked closer. 

It was a ring. But the question was of what kind? It was conceivable – though a fearful though – that Sauron's Ring might have given up the secrets of forging lesser rings to the Naugrim. Rings to make slaves of their bearers. What better slave than a dragon! Though that too was in itself a question that required an answer. How did this wyrm come to be? Had Smaug not been in truth the last of his kind? Had Mithrandir been mistaken in that? Worse, if there was one more, might there be others?

“We are pleased to meet you,” the wyrm said, bobbing its head on its long neck in what might be taken for an attempt at a bow. “Although we have not come for pleasure's sake.”

“I had not thought for a moment that you had,” Legolas replied. “Am I to supposed to ignore that you have come here armed and armoured as for war?”

“Do _you_ forget that it was _you_ who marched against us?” the Naugrim named Dwalin said.

“Not without cause,” Legolas snapped. 

“Aye, after you captured our King and left the rest of us for the spiders!”

“What friend Dwalin means,” the wyrm interrupted, “is that we came with caution for our own safety, that is all. We do not mean for there to be violence. At least, _we_ shall not offer any.”

“And why then, precisely, did you come?” Legolas asked. 

“We need to have words about our treaty,” the Naugrim said. 

“Why?” Legolas could think of no reason they should be displeased; nothing had been done to break the terms that had been agreed. 

“We've had troubling news from our kinsfolk travelling through your forest,” the Naugrim said. “You promised safe passage. They aren't getting it. You aren't holding up your end of the bargain.”

“Do we need to hold the hands of every dwarf that makes their stumbling way through our lands now?” Legolas asked with a sneer. 

“Aye, like you held our hands? It was spiders the last time and now it is spiders again.”

Ah. Now he began to understand their quarrel. It was true that with the effort of preparing for the war which was to come they had not sent out the patrols against Ungoliant's spawn that they once had. The spider's numbers had been much reduced when Dol Guldur fell to the White Council, so that elves were little bothered by them. There had been reports that those numbers were increasing once again, and that they preyed on travellers upon the road, but Legolas had promised Naugrim caravans safety only from himself, not from every small peril that they might come across. 

“Are you not dwarves?” he asked them. “Are you unable to defend yourselves? _I_ have not seen as much from your people.”

“Aye, we are strong and tough enough. But not our children. There are young dwarflings travelling the roads of your kingdom! Easy prey for spiders! You know that though. Easy for you to sit and watch their attacks and gloat that they do your work for you!”

Legolas narrowed his eyes. It did not sit well with him that he was accused of letting children die. Naugrim they might be, but Elves were not without honour and mercy even to wretches and the unwanted. No, such had never been his intent, but it was true that intent was not perfect. Perhaps there was some little truth in the Naugrim's words. 

“What would you have me do?” he asked. 

“Hunt down the spiders of course!” the Naugrim replied. “Honour the spirit of your words as you ought, rather than hiding behind mealy-mouthed technicalities.”

“And we shall go with you,” the wyrm added, although he noted it was to the surprise of its companions. “I have never seen such a spider before,” it explained. “Not to mention that we must of course be sure that the roads _have_ been made safe.” 

“As you will,” Legolas said. Of the demands that could have been made, this was at least easier to bear than some, although he wondered that the dark power that pulled their strings could not simply order the spiders away. Ah well, the internecine squabbles of fell beings were not his concern unless they spilt over, and better evil shed evil blood than that of his own people. 

“We shall ride out at noontime tomorrow.”

\----

_Spring, 2950_

One of the Wizards, the Istari, had come to Imladris. Of course many important people came to speak to his Ada – although Estel ought really to be old enough now not to call him that anymore. He was nineteen, a mere year off from coming of age, and he had grown almost as tall as any of Lord Elrond's warriors, although not as graceful. No, he seemed to be made up mostly of arms and legs, and arms and legs that did not entirely do what he wanted when he wasn't concentrating on them. Ada – Lord Elrond – had told him that this was the way of Men as they grew, and that it was merely a stage that would pass, but if so it was something he very much disliked about being a Man. He could not imagine that Glorfindel – who had once slain a _Balrog_ – or even Elladan and Elrohir had ever been so very clumsy when _they_ were young. 

In any case, the wizard who had come to speak to Lord Elrond was Saruman the White, and this was far from his first visit. In the past few years, he had come perhaps once every year and met with his Ada in secret council. No-one else knew what they talked about, or if they did, they did not wish to speak of it. But Estel did sometimes suspect some people knew more than they were letting on, by some of the soft and knowing smiles he got when he asked about it. This year though, this year all of that would change. Estel would change it. 

Although his lessons as one of the Dunedain had a fallen by the wayside after the long trip that Elrond had taken to other side of the Misty Mountains, Estel had eventually managed to persuade him that they would be valuable. So it was that he learnt to move silently and with great stealth, with the feet of a cat and less noise than the lightest breeze. Now he was going to practise those skills, and finally hear what the White Wizard wanted with his Ada. 

Saruman and Lord Elrond usually met in a room open to the air atop the cliffs looking out over the valley. Either cunning spells or the craftwork of pillars and vaults prevented sound from travelling, and what little did was drowned out by the crashing waterfalls that fell from round about. Estel had chosen the more treacherous route to reach a place where he might hear them, scaling the cliff itself from a balcony below, because he knew how keen were the eyes of wizards. If he had taken the safe route over the rooftops, that sharp sight would have picked him out easily. This way there was no chance of him being seen. 

The rocks were slippery with water sprayed from the falls, but he made his slow way up with great care. He had made his move as soon as he saw Lindir leaving his Ada's hall to request Saruman's presence. Still, by the time he was high enough to hear the murmur of voices, their meeting must have been well underway. 

“He progresses admirably, of course,” Lord Elrond was saying. “I could not wish him to be a more faithful student.”

“You have not said as much in earlier years,” Saruman replied, with what Estel though was a hint of humour. “The tales you told of his, what did you call them... 'escapades'?” 

Estel realised with a jolt that they were talking about him. 

“He was a child,” his Ada said dismissively. “Perhaps I had forgotten the nature of children since the twins were grown. But even then he was diligent. His father was a good man, and he shall be too.”

“Good enough?” Saruman asked. “This is no simple rag-tag band of wanderers in the wilderness he must lead. No, he must be appropriately moulded for our purposes, or else everything might be lost.”

The wizard spoke about him as if he were a thing! A tool, and nothing more. Estel found a glow of anger flare into being in his heart. Surely his Ada would correct Saruman, temper the harshness of his words?

“He is the blood of Isildur,” his Ada said, and Estel could not help the gasp that escaped him. Immediately he stilled, clasping himself close in to the cliff face, but there was no reaction from above. He had not been heard. “A bloodline capable of great deeds, and also fell ones. And yet I have no doubt that Aragorn will prove as faithful a King of Gondor as we could wish.”

It seemed as though Estel's ears were filled with ringing, ringing that drowned out all words from above as though the crashing waters were sweeping over him in a flood. A faithful King of Gondor? That was what all this was about? That was what his Ada meant him to be? Why not tell him? Why keep all of this so secret? What kind of King did Ada mean him to be, that he and this wizard talked about him like he was some kind of puppet! Faithful to what, to _them_? For putting him on the throne was he expected to do just what they wished without question? 

His knuckles were white with the effort of gripping cold stone. Slowly and painfully he managed to loosen them enough to work the stiffness out of them, and began his careful descent. His thoughts were whirling around inside his head. He felt betrayed, more than anything else, betrayed that all this had been kept from him. Even his name, even that was a lie! And his mother! She must have known, she must have agreed to this, and that hurt if anything the most of all. 

Estel – hope – was false. There was no hope here, at least not for him. Hope for the elf he had called Ada, that he do what was wanted of him. And Aragorn, a name he had never heard before now – it was meaningless to him. 

No, he would have a new name. A name he gave himself. And he would not stay here to take it. He found he had already made up his mind. He was leaving. He would take his bow and his blade and the clothes on his back and nothing more. He was a Ranger, if that was a all that was left to him, and he would make his own way.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Strider wanders the wilderness, Galadriel and Arwen discuss the future, and Gandalf keeps a close eye on Gondor.

Fending for himself in the wilds was no unfamiliar task for the young man who had now adopted the use-name of Strider – a common Dúnedain pseudonym. He had journeyed out into forest and plains many times during his training, to learn the craft of the Rangers, of tracking, hunting, foraging. He knew every hiding place, cave and shelter for miles around Imladris. He knew where deer and rabbits could be found, what berries were poisons and which made for good eating. He knew how to shoot a bow, how to skin and prepare his meat, how to start a fire in damp and dry. In fact, all of this was so familiar to him that at first it did not feel as though he had run away from home at all, only as if this was just another simple adventure in the wilderness. 

That feeling quickly faded. Strider hadn't given much thought to what he would do once he left, but he realised soon enough that he wouldn't be able to remain in the area that he knew. On the very second day he was nearly surprised by a patrol of Lord Elrond's horsemen as he lay by one of the clear swift streams that coursed down from the hills above Imladris, drinking and washing his face. He heard the surprisingly quiet hooves of the elvish steeds only moments before they burst out from the treeline along the deer-track, moments enough for him to worm his way into a stand of reeds, mud squishing cold and uncomfortable through his soft, fingerless wool gloves and the knees of his trews. After that he knew to be more wary, but if Lord Elrond had not called his mother and the Dúnedain to the search already, he would soon. They knew the land even better than he did. He could not stay. 

So it was that Strider struck out south-west along the path of the Loudwater River, into a land that had once been named Rhudaur, skirting the Trollshaws that bordered the Great East Road northwards. It was not a land that had seen Men other than the Dúnedain for many long years. Sometimes he came across the abandoned ruins of old towns and villages, only ragged stone now, overgrown with greenery, home now solely to animals and birds. Further south, he knew, in Eregion, there were people; farmers, traders, some little prosperity. The same to the west, until you hit the fertile land of the Shire, which his mother had spoken of fondly. Strider knew the lands of the North just as well as he did those of the South, even if he had come by the knowledge in less coherent fashion than that of his tutors' lessons. 

He knew of its dangers too. Rhudaur had its bears, which he avoided, and its packs of wolves, which were well fed enough to ignore him for the most part, or at least not to make a point of hunting him down. But it also had wargs. Strider had heard about these, of course, but Elrond had kept his own lands free of such creatures, hunting them down if ever they were so bold as to stray across the wider borders of Imladris. He had never seen one with his own eyes. That changed swiftly one night, when an alien howl lifted up under the light of the moon, waking him from his slumber under the well-needled branches of a lone pine. He knew enough not to linger where he was, but immediately grasped the nearest bough and pulled himself upwards into the tree. He was just in time. 

A huge dark shape burst through the trailing curtain of branches and leapt for him, white teeth snapping in a spray of saliva, claws scrabbling against the trunk. Its strength propelled it upwards, but not quite far enough. It fell back, snarling, and circled, looking for a better spot to make the attempt. 

For a moment Strider was frozen with shock, with the sudden violence. He could only stare, and feel the cold grip of treacherous fear numb his limbs and wits. Then he remembered himself. Remembered what he had been taught. The bow, as the sword, had been drilled into him from an early age, and though he had never been as good as any elf who had practised for more years than even Dúnedain lived, his instructors had been satisfied enough to make him think he wasn't all that terrible. He could hit what he aimed for at least, if it wasn't moving too fast, and he wasn't asked to aim for any of the tricky bits like the eyes or the great vessels. He unslung his bow from his back and retrieved its string from the protection of its waxed leather wrapping. It was awkward to put the bow under enough tension to string it surrounded by branches, but he managed it in the end by bracing it against the trunk. Then he nocked an arrow and took careful aim. 

The warg saw what he was doing. If he had needed any proof of the creature's intelligence, the look of contempt it wore would have been enough. Clearly it thought little of the skills of Men when it came to archery. Strider sighted, pulled back, breathed out, and let fly. 

The warg yelped as it was dealt the mortal wound. It was not the quick death it might have been had Strider been an elf, but it had been a fatal blow all the same. Only, as it panted out its last, heaving, gurgling breaths through lungs filling with blood, he found himself feeling guilty, though there was little reason for it. It had been a creature with a brain, not an animal that had no thought of the future or what might have been, and that would at least have served to fill his belly. He wished he had been able to do a better job than this prolonged, painful demise. It would have been... better. 

Not that he felt too bad. It had been trying to kill him. It was only... it had been the first thinking creature he had killed. 

It would have been no comfort to know how much worse killing his first man would make him feel.

\----

Strider crossed out of Rhudaur at one of the old forgotten fords on the Hoarwell river, now far from any road known to most Men. The Dúnedain knew of the ford, because the elves with their long lives remembered when this had been the great Kingdom of the North, Arnor, Gondor's shining twin. Strider had learnt his history well, as he had been intended to. Now he was almost ashamed to have been such a good pupil. Still, another of his lessons had been in how a little knowledge could go a long way in the halls of power, and though he had no intention of going near any such place, he thought himself the better for the knowing anyway. 

He had now come to more settled land in the triangle between the Great East Road to the north, the river behind him, and the Greenway ahead to the west. The land became more open, the forests bearing the mark of Men's work in cutting, clearing and hunting, deer-tracks becoming true paths and small roads. The soil here was good enough for farming, and Strider began to find himself skirting tilled fields and paddocks with high strong fences. After a few more days, upon cresting the rise of a hill he came across his first true village since leaving Imladris. He found himself hesitating looking down upon the small, quiet cluster of houses, simple and squat compared to the buildings of the elves, unsure of himself. He knew little of any people that were not the Dúnedain. Although his kinsfolk spoke often enough to those they protected, Strider had not been allowed to be present for any of it. Would they be welcoming of strangers?

Whether they were or not, skulking like a bandit or a thief would certainly do him no favours. He tried to make himself appear more presentable, as much as was possible for a Ranger who had been travelling wild lands for a week, then he started down the slope towards the hamlet. 

It was likely that someone had spotted him early on, but one traveller alone was evidently of little concern, for no-one came out to greet him or turn him away. In fact he saw little sign of life aside from hearth-fire smoke until he was within shouting distance of the first house. Then he caught sight of a little girl watching him from behind a palisade that caged a somewhat mangy-looking cow. As soon as she realised she'd been seen, she gigged and ran away, disappearing around the corner of the house. Moments later, a stolid looking couple came towards him, both in simple clothes, with curious, careful expressions. 

“Greetings friends,” Strider called to them, making sure his empty hands were easily seen in front of him. He was rather aware of the fact that he was armed with both sword and bow, and they bore no trace of a weapon. He reached up slowly and pushed back his hood so they could better see his face. 

“Ach, you're naught but a boy!” the man exclaimed with a look of surprise. “Surely you haven't been travelling by yourself lad? Where's your father?”

Strider found himself flushing a little, partly embarrassment, and partly anger. “I am of age next year,” he said coolly, “and my father is dead.” 

That much made the man look ashamed. “I'm sorry to hear that lad,” he said. “Here, you look like you've been travelling a long while, and it's clear you don't mean us no harm. Why don't you come inside for a meal? We've little enough, but enough to spare.”

“I thank you for your hospitality,” he replied, and followed them inside.

The sparseness of the place was surprising. Back in Imladris, there was nothing that had not been crafted to be beautiful as well as useful. It was certainly true enough that Strider had seen buildings which were plain and unadorned when he travelled on his short trips with the Dúnedain, but he had thought that only because these were forest shacks rather than permanent dwellings. But perhaps it was in fact simply the Mannish style. 

“I am Isolt,” the woman told him, motioning him to a bench seat by a low, rough table. “And this is Harvald. And our daughter, Ase.” Strider nodded, watching her quick and sure movements around the single small room, uncovering carved wooden plates, bowls and cups from cunningly hidden places. Then he realised he was meant to make some reply, and hesitated. 

“I travel under the name Strider,” he said. “Any other name I might claim would be... complicated.”

He saw his hosts exchange glances, but he did not know the meaning concealed in them. Still, they did not press the subject. Soon a mug of small beer had been put in front of him, along with a bowl of stew, a hunk of dark, heavy bread, and a small piece of cheese. He knew enough of manners shared between both Elves and Men to wait until the others were seated and served also before beginning to eat. It was good fare, after too much of meat and hard biscuit in the last weeks. 

He had felt some worry that Harvald and Isolt would ask him the sort of questions he would find it difficult to answer, but instead they asked about his travels; the conditions, the dangers, what fierce and wild things lurked in wait for the unwary. That much he certainly did not mind talking about. They were surprised to hear that he had come from the east, but Strider assured them of the skills that kept him safe and his ability to look after himself. 

“Still, no boy ought to have to face such wild beasts,” Harvald said, shaking his head. The girl Ase stared at him wide-eyed from the other side of the table. She was very quiet, and Strider did not know enough of children to say whether this was normal. “And if you mean to keep westwards as you say, that's not the only danger you'll be running into.”

“What do you mean?”

“Bandits,” Isolt told him. “Robbers have plagued the road recently. The rumours say that once they would have been too scared of the Rangers to come so close to their territory – not that Rangers are more than tall tales anyway, _I've_ not ever seen nor heard of a real one. But whether real or not, seems Rangers have other business to keep them occupied other than patrolling the highways.”

Strider felt a rush of surprise, and then of shame. What if it was because of him? It could be. His mother would have called everyone she could to look for him, and he supposed he could hardly blame her. It wasn't that he doubted her love for him, only that he couldn't be sure how much she had known about Elrond's plans for him. Whether she had given him into his care so he could be raised to be the kind of puppet-king they wanted, or for the reason he had always previously been told; to keep him safe. But it was unpleasant to think that because of her search innocent people like these villagers might be in more danger. 

He listened carefully as his hosts filled him in on all they knew about the situation, and felt the hollow in his belly grow. The Rangers were all of his old life he still respected, whose ideals he wanted to live up to. He had a responsibility, as one of them, as a son of the Dúnedain. He just wasn't quite sure what exactly he might be able to do to make it right. 

He still didn't know by the next morning when he set off again, but that made him no less determined. 

\----

Dagmar Caravan-Mistress did not remember when the boy had first joined them. She hadn't thought much of it at the time. He had looked suspicious, but then who didn't on this road? Once you got south of the Brandywine River that was it for decent civilisation until Rohan, and if only the Blue Mountain dwarves didn't make such pretty – and more importantly valuable – things no merchant would think the trip worth it. One more thin, ragged man with a dirty hooded cape concealing his face and an old sword at his hip, looking for the protection of travelling with a group, was little to take note of. He hadn't spoken much, but he had a bow and he had hunted with it, which was more than enough to earn his keep. 

Now though she was wishing she had asked a few more questions. 

The bandit leader, a thug who looked as though maybe he had a touch of orc way back in his bloodline, looked just as bemused as she felt. “What are you playing at, you fool?” he said. “There's a lot more of us then there are of you, and to be honest, there's not much profit to be made in killing those that think they're heroes. Dead bodies don't make no-one any money.” 

“And I told you, this stops,” the man said. He still had his hood up, but his voice sounded younger than she'd thought, now Dagmar actually had a chance to hear it properly. The sword was no old relic either, but shining sharp steel, well oiled and honed. And he held it like he knew how to use it. 

The bandit sighed. She could see him thinking it over in his head. The stranger could probably get a few good hits in, maybe wound some of his men before they took him down, and there was no kind of reliable healer out here, or at least none that would treat someone with suspiciously sword-inflicted wounds. On the other hand, he didn't seem the kind of person much made for negotiating. 

“No,” he said after a moment. “No, I think we will kill you.” 

The bandits moved quickly. They had no weapons quite as nice as the young man's, but they had wicked-looking axes and spiked bucklers, and odds and ends of armour, and they were clearly no strangers to violence. And yet when the ragged stranger leapt into the fight against them, all of a sudden they seemed as clumsy as children playing with sticks. Dagmar watched with wonder and not a little fear as the young man dodged and parried axe-swings, fending off four men at once with such skill that they got in the way of the others trying to come for him. Then with a flash of steel and a sudden spray of blood, one of the thieves was on the ground with a hand clamped over his throat and his jerkin rapidly turning red. 

In the moment of stunned silence that followed, Dagmar realised that no-one was watching her own caravan guards any more. She kicked the ankle of the man standing beside her, who still had his belt-knife even if his halberd had been confiscated and motioned to the half-turned back of the bandit who had been the one to take it. He got her meaning quickly enough. 

It was over not long after. The bandits saw which way things were going, and the profit-cost analysis worked itself out rapidly in their heads. They took off, leaving their dead behind along with those too wounded to walk, who would be becoming dead sooner rather than later. The young man watched them go, a sheen of blood clinging to the edge of his blade. His hood had fallen back during the fight. His hair was an unwashed tangle clumped into a horse's-tail at the back of his neck. 

Then he turned his head, and in the pale, shaking, shocked expression of his face Dagmar saw just how young he really was. 

\-----

_Summer 2950_

Galadriel was ill at ease. She had been so ever since the fortress and the mountain, since dragon-fire and ancient evil thrust into the light. Had that year been merely a year of Sauron she would have been less discomforted; he was an old foe but familiar in his age and in his deeds. She knew him and the manner of his thoughts. But the new evil that had come into the world she did not know. It distracted with its smallness and was all the greater danger for it. It had powers she in all her years had never seen and had no knowledge of. It was nothing that had come out of the West, but something that seemed to have arisen here in the centre of the world unnoticed by any of the great and wise. 

Lothlórien was preparing for what was to come, as much as any of the realms of her kin. Even Lord Círdan, who concerned himself little with affairs beyond his own lands, she had convinced to turn his thoughts to war. It was a future lying heavy on the present. Her mirror showed her many things, water blessed by Nenya's power, visions of fire and ruin, and dominion over all lands beneath the sun and moon. Shadow and wings against a sky turned black with rising smoke. She had heard from Legolas Thranduillion that their enemy had found another of the Urúloki, or in a suspicion she had not yet chosen to share, perhaps had brought it forth out of the silence of a former death. If so there might be others, but she had been unable to divine the number or nature of the wyrms. 

There had been a plan. The White Council had agreed on it together, and she had thought it wise enough at the time for all that it replied so much on the strength of Men. Now though, their King-to-be had disappeared entirely, an event coinciding suspiciously with a visit of Curunír the White to Imladris. Galadriel did not trust Curunír in the way that she trusted Olórin. His mind was a maze that concealed much. Yet it would be of no gain to him for the child Estel to be lost to them. 

She walked the star-lit paths of Caras Galadhon, feeling the feather-light press of the grass beneath her feet, the wash of Elbereth's light in the arc of the sky overhead. She was not the only one to be awake at this late hour. Lamp-light flickered in branches above, and her keen ears picked out the murmur of voices in speech or song that her mind then put faces to with easy touches against their own. 

In a clearing ahead, a more familiar mind than most moved. 

Her grand-daughter was dancing a sword-dance. A slender elven blade flickered in the dark as she moved between shadow and light. Galadriel watched her for long moments, considering her form. Arwen had not been studying the ways of war for very long, but the same was true of many of those who had only taken up arms when they heard of the new darkness that had come. She had a natural talent for it, which made up for some of the experience she lacked, although not enough that she would be comfortable to let her daughter's child go unsupported into danger or the thick of battle. 

“Hello grandmother,” Arwen said, once she had finished, and sheathed her sword once more. She was a very little out of breath, and her hair had begun to escape from the braid she had tied it into. 

“You work harder than you need to,” Galadriel told her gently. “The danger is yet far off.” She did not say that with every year they let it lie, their enemy grew stronger. If it did so, then so did they, and she must be confident that theirs grew faster. 

“I should not have been content to let my brothers become warriors without me,” Arwen replied, starting to unwind her braid back into a fall of dark hair. “It might have suited them more, but now I will not be able to do as much as they will.” She was frowning. 

“The time of darkness seemed long past. We did not yet know Sauron lingered in Dol Guldur, nor that the One Ring might arise again after so many centuries lost.” Galadriel did not wish her grand-daughter to lay blame where none ought rest. 

“My father has never been happy that it was not destroyed when it should have been,” Arwen said. “He has always been cautious about the dangers of the world, but I paid less attention than I should have. Now I have much lost time to make up for.”

“And so you practise in the dark.”

“Sleep had deserted me.”

Galadriel inclined her head in amusement, since she could hardly make any reply to that when the very same was true of herself. 

“Is it because of Estel?” Arwen asked. “I know he was important, although I don't remember very much of him. Just a very little child getting underfoot when I left Imladris to visit you here.”

“The Dúnedain will find him, or your brothers will. And perhaps it will have been good for him to see more of the world and those who must live in it. A King must know those he rules, and he will have seen little of Men in Imladris.”

“And if they don't find him in time?” Arwen asked. She had begun to braid her hair up again. Galadriel felt the direction her thoughts were tracing. 

“You wish to seek him yourself.”

“He is not the only one who needs experience,” Arwen replied. “You wanted me to stay here these past years to keep me safe I know, but I've learned enough now to be in no danger on the road. And I feel... that I need to travel.”

“Some are not meant to stay in one land all their lives,” Galadriel said. “To some is given the urge to wander. If this is in your heart, know that I have faith in you. If you wish to leave, go with my blessing.”

“Thank you grandmother.” Arwen bowed to her, hand over heart. “I will prove worthy of your trust.”

“That I do not doubt.” Already she could feel the slender threads of the future shiver as they changed in the most subtle ways. “In the morning, you will be outfitted for your journey. Go forth and learn of the lands of Men.”

\-----

_Autumn 2951_

Clouds were always gathered over Mordor now. Ecthelion saw them each morning from the window of his room, staring out at the distant mountains jagged as the teeth of some great beast. That land had fallen into darkness, as the old records said it had once done long ago, when Gondor's old enemies called that place home. Something had returned to the black depths of Mordor, and he knew what that something was even if no-one yet had spoken its name out loud. Rumours were more than loud enough. 

Sauron. Laid low by Isildur, before the poison Sauron left behind corrupted him and led to his death. And where there was Sauron there rode his dead servants, those who had taken Minas Tirith's once-beautiful twin city and made it a grave, who had tricked the last King of Gondor to his death. With such terrible and desperate days on the horizon, how could Ecthelion do anything but fear?

His father no longer had the strength to rule. His days were coming to an end. Soon Ecthelion would be Steward in name as well as in truth. That made all of this real and immediate in a way it had not quite been before. And what then would he do to protect his people? The treasury was impoverished, the army weakened, their defences untested and far from the old days of their glory and strength. He knew what some of his advisers would say. The words of that old soothsayer all those years ago had taken root in the minds of many of his people; this half-myth of a powerful lord in the North; Kulkodar who would come to save them in Gondor's hour of need. It was the same old stories about the lost Kings in a new form, and worth about as much. He had sent envoys to find out the truth, and none had ever returned. 

No, Mithrandir had convinced him that there was nothing good to these tales of Kulkodar. Indeed in days like these he was grateful for the wizard's council, although neither of them could do much to quash any of the rumours Ecthelion would rather not see spread in the White City. For the past eight or nine years Mithrandir had been a fixture at court, busying himself with some wizardly studies of the great archives of Minas Tirith. Something about the old Kings and the line of Isildur, Ecthelion knew little of the details. He was merely happy that it kept him here where his wisdom was so needed. 

“Good morning Lord Ecthelion,” Mithrandir greeted him, when he stepped into the Great Hall that day. 

“And to you Mithrandir,” Ecthelion replied, “although when you come to me so early, I regret it is rarely with good news.”

“Well,” the wizard said, smiling, “unlike many rulers I have known, you have the wisdom and good manners to actually _listen_ to me.” He hesitated a moment, leaning on his staff. “And, perceptive as ever, you are right. I do have news. Orcs are moving in greater numbers in the mountains of Mordor. The Black Gate is manned again, as is Minas Morgul. Tremors have been felt in the earth in Ithilien. I fear Sauron has grasped enough of his old power to reawaken the fires of Mount Doom and begin reconstruction of his fell tower Barad-dûr.”

Ecthelion sat down heavily upon the Steward's chair. “Ill news indeed.”

“You have already begun work to rebuild the defences of Gondor,” Mithrandir told him. “And it will be some while yet before any move is made against _you._ You are not the only enemy Sauron has.”

“I can think of few so close and so near to his thoughts.”

“There you are wrong,” Mithrandir said. “The lands which once fell under his power – Harad, Umbar, Rhûn - have long been free of him, and may not be so eager to bow before a dark lord much reduced in his strength. He will have work to do in persuading or re-conquering them.”

Ecthelion had never given much credence to the claims that Mithrandir kept things from him. Of course he would have his own secrets; he was a wizard after all, and as inclined to be cagey and private as any of his ilk. Saruman was proof enough that wizards did not let their words flow freely. But when it came to advice, he had always trusted it. And yet... it was not that it rang false, for he imagined the return of Sauron's rule would be as though some dark mirror of Isildur himself walked into this hall expecting to sit upon the High Throne – as many would be wary of him as a trick as would welcome his coming. Often it was said in his hearing, as though to flatter, that Gondor needed no King. But still he could not imagine Sauron thinking of such once-subjects as his enemies, and the word had such weight in Mithrandir's mouth... 

_Kulkodar_ , the thought flashed across his mind before he dismissed it. No. If Gondor needed no King then it needed no tall tale to save it either. Let Sauron come for them; it would be years down the line if Mithrandir's claims ran true, and in that time Gondor would make itself strong. Through long centuries Gondor had held, against dead Kings and their armies Gondor had held when its sister Arnor crumbled and fell, and now would it hold too, against whatever terrors the future held. 

That was his promise to his people.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gimli is invited to a party, Akhôrahil receives some bad news, Bard is visited by some threatening individuals, and the search for Aragorn continues. 
> 
> The name Mizim for Gloin's wife is borrowed, of course, from the inestimable [ Sansukh ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/855528).

_Early Winter 2951_

Gimli son of Glóin was going to see the King. Or rather, his father was, as one of the members of the legendary Company, and Gimli was joining him. It was the ten year anniversary celebration of their victory over the Elves and Erebor becoming dwarvish once again. There had been a massive party all throughout the day, with feasting and drinking and singing and many, many speeches which became less coherent as the hours went on. Although everyone in Erebor had been invited to the main event, even the people of Dale who had technically been on the wrong side a decade ago, the Company of Thorin Oakenshield were having their own party afterwards, in the King and Consort's halls, with all of their families. Gimli had been excited about it ever since he'd been told it was going to happen. 

Gimli had at least managed not to spill anything on his clothes during the feast earlier, and he was still too young to be allowed strong dwarvish beer, or even much of the weaker stuff the Men preferred. His mind was therefore clear of anything but anticipation as they climbed the great stair. His father and mother had both been drinking as much as anyone else, but he didn't see any signs of it in them now. They both looked very fine in their ceremonial mail, covered over by jerkins embroidered with thread-of-gold. His father wore gold braid clips marked with the symbol of their house, and his mother had put her hair and beard up in ornate loops studded with beads of turquoise and lapis, bright against her fiery locks. His own clips were silver for his youth, for although he had come of age two years ago, he hadn't yet found his Craft or Calling. 

The door to the King's halls had pillars to either side carved with the signs of the house of Durin, and over it were the wings of the Raven, the symbol of the Royal Line of Erebor. Dwalin was there to greet them with a wide grin on his face. He looked very different in casual clothes compared to the last time Gimli had seen him, when he'd been dumping him flat on his back during weapon's training when Gimli moved too slowly to get out to the way of his axes. That was one of the things about your father being a member of the Company – you were trained by the Captain of the King's own Guard himself! If only Dwalin was a little less intimidating...

“Glóin!” Dwalin cried out as he saw them, spreading his arms wide in greeting. “And Mizim, beautiful as ever! And you young Gimli, you clean up well enough when you've brushed the dust out of your beard.” He laughed in an affectionate kind of way that made Gimli redden in embarrassment. “Fíli, Kíli and Ori are all here already; they'll be glad of another young one to talk to.”

Gimli brightened up at this. The princes were older than him, but not by much, and they were very friendly. His father didn't approve of him spending time with them outside of 'professional areas', meaning training with Dwalin, and any other lessons that they might happen to have together, which weren't many. He wasn't sure if this was because the princes were much more important than his own family, or if Dad didn't approve of their friendship with Erebor's dragons. But either way, Gimli liked them, and they were certainly easier to talk to then his father's friends, a dour lot he was always having over to the house and talking with in the back rooms where Gimli wasn't allowed to go.

Most of the rest of the Company was already there, seated around a large table with a top inlaid with patterns in marble. Bifur, Bofur and Bombur were there, Bombur already laying into a plate of roast beef, cheese and pickled onions with his famous appetite. Kíli had told him that Bombur had once fit twenty boiled eggs into his mouth all at the same time, which Gimli only half believed was the truth. Uncle Óin was sitting intent on a mug of foaming beer, and had to be jostled in the side by Balin before he noticed that they were here. Of course then he stood up and pulled Gimli into a bone-breaking hug. 

That over, his uncle directed him to the other young dwarves, who were in the adjoining room. Gimli made his way through to see that Fíli and Ori were engrossed in a game of hnefatafl whilst Kíli looked on offering 'advice'. 

“You should move it here,” Kíli was saying as he came in. “Look, he's left it wide open.”

“That's because it's a trap,” Fíli replied, sliding a different soldier piece forward somewhere else. 

Kíli considered this a moment whilst Ori grinned at him. “So it is,” he admitted, then looked up to see Gimli watching them. He smiled brilliantly. “Look who made it! I thought you might be snoring under a table somewhere by now.”

“Aye, perhaps I would be if _a'dad_ allowed me to drink anything stronger than boiled water!” Gimli replied. 

“I do like a nice cup of tea,” Ori said, still mostly concentrating on the board. 

“A cup of tea is not what a good party needs,” Gimli said. “It needs ale! _Dwarves_ need ale!” He hadn't realised he felt so strongly about it until he had started talking. 

“No need to tell us,” Fíli said with a sigh. “Do we look like people who've been drinking all afternoon? No, because Thorin made us promise not to 'act in a way inappropriate for the House of Durin'.” 

“No fun, this responsibility business,” Kíli added. “Sitting up there at the High Table looking all serious and royal.”

“But that part of it's all over isn't it?” Gimli pointed out. “You don't have to do that any more.”

A wide grin started to spread over the brother's faces. “Well done that dwarf,” Kíli said. “That's a very good point. And I _do_ know where Uncle keeps his drink.”

“Are you sure he won't mind?” Ori asked nervously.

“Of course not,” Fíli told him, patting him reassuringly on the shoulder. “Not when it's us at least!”

It was a decision easily made after that. Kíli rummaged in a set of storage cupboards skilfully concealed inside the walls and produced several clear glass bottle full of golden liquid. “The Dale-folk distil it from barley,” he told them. “Fire-water they call it, from the colour and the taste. Just the thing for a band of dragon-friends.” 

Gimli said nothing to that, but a little of his thoughts must have shown on his face because Fíli said, “Well, and you're from a Firebeard line, so of course it's appropriate for you as well.”

“True enough,” Gimli replied, and accepted the bottle eagerly enough as they passed it around. 

Some time later, although through the warmth suffusing his blood it was hard to tell how long it had been, Gimli found himself desperately needing to answer a call of nature. He disentangled himself from the pile currently leaning against one of the couches, which arose from the floor as one block of stone and had been carved out when the room itself was made. Kíli, who had been rambling at some length about some mischief or other he had been up to with Ancalagon and Calarus (the black and the copper dragons, Gimli remembered), raised his voice in momentary protest at the sudden lack of warmth at his side, but went back to his story quickly enough after dragging some cushions off the couch to replace him. 

After taking advantage of the convenience of dwarvish plumbing, Gimli was just on his way back to rejoin the others when he noticed his father leaving the main hall. Gimli stopped, concealed at the junction, waiting to see where he was going. There was a strange furtiveness about his movements that seemed odd. Glóin turned down the passage that led away from Gimli, towards the King and Consort's rooms. Curious, Gimli followed, hanging back. In the soft leather of his party boots his footsteps were surprisingly quiet. Certainly his father had no idea he was there. 

Glóin bypassed what turned out on Gimli's passing to be Thorin's sleeping chambers, and turned a corner to another room where he slipped inside. Gimli went up to the doorway and peered through the crack that his father had left between door and frame. It was a large room with walls polished to the sheer shine of the public areas, although private rooms were often left dull or rougher depending on a dwarf's personal taste. At first Gimli thought the lines of gold worked throughout the room were just the traceries of natural seams, but a closer look revealed patterns. Maps. This was Erebor; every hall and corridor, every mine and smithy, and considering whereabouts this was, probably a great deal of secret ways besides. Everyone knew that there were hidden ways in the mountain; the side-door was only one example. 

Those didn't seem to be the only maps in the place either. There were great sheets of parchment, vellum and paper laid out on the central table. His father had gone over to them and was going through them, scanning their contents with a speed that suggested he was looking for something in particular. Gimli hesitated. He wasn't sure he should be watching this. He was _certainly_ sure his father shouldn't be doing whatever this was. He glanced away up and down the corridor, but they were empty and utterly silent. When he looked back, his father was tucking something into his jerkin. 

Gimli took a quick step back, then began to steal away as quietly as he could. He didn't want his father to catch him; that was bound to be trouble, and he had to think about this first. About what his father might have wanted and why. His head was whirling with confusion, although some of that might have been the drink. 

Something was going on in Erebor, and he wanted to know what.

\----

It was astonishing how much silver could be forced to fit inside a small hammered band. The first time, with iron, Thorin had not quite understood the strange alchemy of the craft, and so the resulting piece had been thin as thread and refused entirely to change size in any way. Now though, after much practise, he felt he had begun to achieve something better than apprentice-work. The runes he had inscribed on the bars of silver shimmered in the heat, unbroken despite the blows of his hammer that compacted and bonded the segments together. Their light seemed to pulse in time with his voice as he sung the words Bilbo's Ring had taught him. 

The songs of spells fitted his throat better than he would have anticipated. Dwarves had never had much truck with the magic of Elves or Men. Mahal had given them the secrets of runes, in the time before the Awakening, and that had been more than enough for his people. But he liked the way this magic echoed around the forge, the way it thrummed in his bones, vibrated in his chest. 

“More heat?” the dragonet asked him. 

Thorin nodded, stepping back. Sweat beaded on his skin, dripping from his brow as fire bloomed in front of him. Another thing about crafting rings; they needed a forge imbued with magic. The Elves no doubt had had their ways, and the sorcerer, Mairon or Sauron or whatever he called himself, had used the fires of the very earth itself. Here, he had the dragons. Each one heated the materials for their own rings, as Thorin had been assured this would let them make better use of them. 

Tighter and tighter the silver packed itself, driven by hammer and song. He could feel it, like some unnatural weight, like the thickness of air in a deep mine. It drew his strength out of him, but he had much strength to give it. 

Gradually, he brought the Ring to life.

\----

_Spring 2952_

Akhôrahil did not believe he could be said to enjoy things as a general rule, but he did feel a certain sense of pleasure in being in Umbar. The culture here had changed little in the past millennia; they held on fast to the memory of ancient Númenór, their ancestors who had conquered these shores in ages long past. Things looked as he remembered them from the days of his own rule. Zawiyet el-Meitin, city upon the bay, lay spread out before him, white and cream, sandstone and limestone shining in the sun. Upon the waters boats of many kinds moved, square sailed or lateen sailed, some with oars, some with nets over the sides, some with prows painted with eyes in red or blue or black. At mid-day the temple fires could little be seen, but at night they would glow like red stars.

“My lord,” a voice said behind him. He turned. Semerkhet, one of the courtiers he had seen about the palace, stood holding aside the curtain-door of the room, looking nervous. Not nervous merely because it was a Nazgûl he spoke to; Akhôrahil knew the taste of the fear he caused well enough. This was a fear for another reason. Akhôrahil beckoned the young man to enter. 

“Dread lord,” Semerkhet said. Hesitated. “What I must say should not be overheard,” he whispered.

Akhôrahil raised a hand. A spell of silence was a simple enough one. “Speak,” he said. “It shall pass unnoticed.”

“I was at the court of King Ar-Azruzagar this morning. He had called the envoy of the Eye there – he has made his decision, and not in your favour my lord.”

Akhôrahil's line of thought stopped momentarily in his shock. He had not thought it would go this way. The Black Númenoreans had never been the most loyal servants of Mairon even when he last ruled, for their pride was great. Even now there was a great monument of solid gold in one of the squares near the palace in the likeness of Ar-Pharazôn triumphing over Mairon in the last days of old Númenór, albeit one tainted with the knowledge that it was that very prisoner whose cunning words had led to its eventual downfall.

But for all that, and all the promises he himself had made to Ar-Azruzagar, it seemed more recent history was preying on the King's mind. Gondor. It all came down to Gondor, a weakened but still powerful giant to the north, a conqueror who had claimed ownership of Umbar and parts of Harad since almost two thousand years ago, when their armies had come south under the banner of King Hyarmendacil I. Those wars had continued ever since in one form or another. 

“When does the King intend to move against Gondor?” Akhôrahil asked. 

“You are wise to see my King's reasoning, lord. I am afraid I do not know,” Semerkhet replied apologetically. “That much was not agreed this morning. But it must be soon I am sure. The messenger of the Eye promised support in the endeavour, in return for our support later on against your faction, dread lord.”

“Yet you come to me with warnings,” Akhôrahil noted. 

Semerkhet hesitated. “I read,” he said. “History shows us that the Eye is not reliable, and is loath to keep its promises. I would rather we are not caught up in its plots again, although I suppose it is unavoidable.”

“How long before the sorcerers come?” Akhôrahil asked. 

“A few hours yet,” the boy replied. “When Ar-Azruzagar summoned them the Grand Master said they would need time to prepare – they are afraid of you lord, and your strength.”

“Then I shall save them the trouble of testing it,” Akhôrahil replied. “It is clear I can do no more good here. Not at this time.”

But there were other places that might be more susceptible to persuasion. Harad had many Kings, and all it took was one causing Mairon trouble to set things a little back in their favour.

\----

_Summer 2952_

All of Dale and Laketown had turned out for the funeral, which was more than the old bastard deserved. He had never ceased being a thorn in Bard's side, and even in death it seemed the Master was still causing problems. Bard had never asked to be anyone of importance. His ancestors might have been Kings, but he had never much cared for the idea although he had never managed to persuade the Master of that. And then he had been sent to see a dragon, and somehow that had impressed Erebor enough that he had been chosen to oversee the rebuilding of Dale – although more likely the Master was hoping he would annoy the Kings under the Mountain enough that they would have him killed. Bard had expected that he would make a great mess of things, but organisation seemed to come naturally to him. People seemed to find him likeable in a way they hadn't before. It probably helped that he didn't stink of fish all the time as he once had. And anyone who showed him too much favour in the past would have had the Master's wrath to cope with. 

But that same likeability was now the cause of a new and particularly unpleasant problem. They wanted to make him King. It had first begun as rumours amongst the common folk in the last days of the Master's final illness, words that he had heard before if never so loud or so openly spoken. His lineage seemed to impress people, although it oughtn't. Bard was not his fore-father, and put little stock in blood as a measure of a man's worth. Better to judge by deeds, and his were of no particular greatness or grandeur. Then the Master had declined further, slipping into the last days of his ilness, and the words began to be spoken by more important people, people with money and influence. 

The lands that had once fallen under the banner of the Kings of Dale had long since been carved up by those barons who had owned them when the dragon first came. When the city burned, they had been free to make their own way in life, setting themselves up as independent lords of their own domains, with no need to bow to laws or pay taxes to a greater authority. As the years went by, Bard knew, those families had only consolidated their rule as Laketown built itself alone and began to claw back some kind of livelihood from those trade caravans that had not yet heard that there was no longer a Dale to trade with. It had never been easy even despite their advantageous position, but things had, perhaps, gradually been getting better even before the past few years. If nothing else, at least the Masters had always been chosen for their good heads for money, Bard reflected. 

The barons though, they liked wealth as much as any, and whilst they had been content to use Laketown as a kind of independent market where the merchants of each domain's master would at least pay no duties to any other lord, when the Mountain opened, they had come to take a greater interest. Bard had cared little, so long as none interfered with the restoration efforts that were his charge. Now he thought perhaps that laxness had given them the wrong idea about him. He held few illusions about why barons would chose _him_ as their lord, rather than one of their own number. 

They were watching him even now, from pride of place by the Long Lake docks, in seating build for the purpose, as Bard accompanied the City Guard bringing the funeral carriage down to the boat which had been laid out for the Master's final journey. Like as not some of the talk going on amongst them was how best to approach him now. 

But, Bard realised, they were not the only eyes upon him. It was an uneasy feeling that made him turn looking, made the more so when he saw the three figures in their own open circle of space and silence. Two tall and clad in black, fell as death, the other shifting as smoke with eyes of fire. Kulkodar and his Nazgûl. 

Erebor had sent a dwarvish delegation down already, led by Lord Balin the Steward, but no mention had been made that one of the two Mountain Kings would be coming for this. Fire and Stone they called them, admiring the dwarf-king's strength of heart and will, and his ability to stand against – no, to _care for_ – such a fearsome creature as the one who commanded dragons. A decade might have passed, but none had forgotten the battle at Erebor's foot where the very ground shuddered and moved at that dark lord's command. Bard had not been the only Man there, nor the only to come back alive., and that kind of tale was long-lived 

Still, he could not wonder now what purpose they might have in being here. The procession had come to the water's edge, and a quartet of bier-bearers lifted the Master's shrouded body from the carriage up onto their shoulders. They brought him out along the pier and laid him down in the barge, his belongings piled around him. He had no family that they might go to. Retreating, the men loosed the ropes tying the barge, and two small row-boats began to drag it out over the waters. When they too had done their job, they cast loose their own ropes and moved away, leaving Bard to step forward and do his part. 

The arrows he had already prepared, although he would not need more than one. He nocked one to his longbow, and dipped its end in the brazier in front of him. The pitch-soaked rags coating its head bloomed into flame. He raised the bow, sighted, and let fly. 

Afterwards, as the crowds began to depart, Bard expected the barons to find him, but someone else got to him first. Gazing at the dead men at Kulkodar's back, he wondered if he might have preferred the nobles. There was always this unnatural fear when the Nazgûl were about, not something that came from yourself but from outside. Some kind of aura they carried around them that you simply couldn't fight against. Bard had never been one to bow to fear though. It seemed to rather harden something in him, make him both stronger, but also more merciless. He didn't like the sensation of what he thought he might become when truly afraid. 

“I'd offer condolences,” Kulkodar said, “but I think that would be more insulting than comforting given the circumstances.”

“I thank you all the same,” Bard replied warily. He did not yet know what this was about, and disliked the not-knowing. 

“I hear in fact that congratulations would be more in order.”

It was never precisely easy to meet the eyes of the King of Fire, given that his form never seemed to be settled but constantly shrouded in shadow so that not even his height could be made out, but in his irritation Bard made a good try of it. “Nothing I want anything to do with,” he said. 

“Really?” the creature seemed amused. 

“You were never the Master's puppet,” the dead man that Bard thought might be the one called Khamûl said, in a voice that made his skin prickle. “They have taken notice of you only as much as they thought they needed to. They are being fools. Take advantage of that foolishness.”

“And what do I want with any of this?” Bard asked with scorn, gesturing to the three of them and indicating thereby the whole concept of ruling. “I am a glorified quartermaster, and before that a bargeman.”

“You aren't concerned what might become of Dale if one of them was to rule it?” Kulkodar asked him. 

“Enquiries have been made,” the other dead man said. “Not men much given to kindness, or justice, it is said.”

“They're my people yes, but not mine to rule.” He had the sense that somehow he was losing an argument that never should have touched his resolve. 

“Poor and miserable and suffering they will become,” said the second Nazgûl. “As you were once.”

“And what of your family if you refuse them?” said the first. He said this in a way that sounded... like silk. Like oil. Fine and rich but something sickly about it. “Your son is a fine man now, yet he looks to you to stoke his ambition and you have none.”

“Your eldest daughter dreams of running away with elves, spending her days sleeping in trees, leaping through branches under starry skies at night,” the second again. “Your youngest believes herself unworthy of happiness, for do you not believe the same of yourself?”

“You know nothing of any of this!” Bard said, with real fear now and sharp anger. Kulkodar's eyes seemed to burn him like brands for all that he did not speak. “You do not know me and you do not know my family!”

“But these nobles know them,” said Khamûl. “Where you live, where you sleep. If you are not their pawn, so they say amongst themselves, then you are a threat for what you could be, and as you are you have no strength to protect those you love.”

“So you say what? Bow to them or not? You contradict yourselves!” It was an odd thing that no-one was looking at them, a strange sight though they must make, and Bard half-shouting at them. But that was magic; little to be trusted, and ever playing tricks. 

“Bow at first. Bow and gain strength, then turn when they are weak and you are strong,” said Khamûl. “You shall be King of Dale, Bard the Bowman, and we prefer you whom we know to a lesser noble of little character.”

“I will promise nothing to you,” Bard said, but he could already feel himself wavering. He had never sought out power, but nor had he done anything to make the Master fear him less, and he had gone to his post here in Dale willingly enough. “Though I imagine things will turn out the way you want them in the end.”

“I look forward to your coronation,” said Kulkodar, as warm as though his dead guards had not just been throwing threats every which way. “Good luck, Bard.”

\-----

The boy was troubling him again. Tarben was not a man given to introspection and few things gave him cause for concern, but the boy was one of them. He had seen many things in his time, many of them unpleasant. Strider would not be the first child he had seen wield a blade, kill with it. It was never a happy sight and it spoke ill of the past he would not speak of, but such things happened in the world and Tarben had no illusions about his own ability to change it. And it was better, all things considered he thought, that he had given the boy this job where at least someone could keep an eye on him, else he would like as not be off wandering the countryside until something even more unpleasant happened to him. 

Even as good with that sword as he was, unpleasant things were sometimes unavoidable. 

Still, it was that skill which made up part of what bothered him. Tarben's father had been part of a mercenary company – and there was plenty of work for such as they in lands far to the south – until he had met his mother and settled down in Rohan, and he had taught Tarben from the time he could first hold a stick in his pudgy little hand. He knew he was good at what he did, which was why he charged so much for the services of himself and his men on the Edoras to Ered Luin route. But the boy Strider... the sword was in his blood, to fight like that. Practise alone couldn't do it, although Tarben had no doubt he would have been diligent in that too. Some were natural masons, natural carpenters, natural weavers, natural bards. This boy was a natural warrior, and he had come to it far earlier than he ever should. 

The path that lay before a boy such as that could not be a good one, in Tarben's mind. Strider would not be satisfied staying here forever, killing bandits and Dunlendings. They might have been more active in recent months, but that danger was settling down again to the levels it had generally always been at. The boldness of lawless folk waxed and waned, but for the most part the job of caravan-guard involved a great deal more walking and waiting than it did fighting, and that would not satisfy him. 

Tarben was roused from his thoughts by the sound of hooves from the road ahead. Two figures on horseback came aound a turn in the track at a light trot. They wore green cloaks with the hoods up, and they were armed with sword and bow. Their mounts were nothing ordinary either, sleek muscles sliding with restrained power under the gleaming hides. Despite the dust underfoot, it seemed none of it was inclined to stick to them. 

The two slowed, then stopped. One dismounted, and waited as the caravan approached. Tarben strode out to meet them, curious. 

“A good day to you,” one of the strangers said, in a surprisingly muscial voice. He put a hand over his heart and bowed slightly. 

“And to you sir,” Tarben replied. 

“I wonder if perhaps you could help us,” the stranger continued. Tarben could see little of him beneath his concealing hood, save sharp eyes in a sharp-boned face, clean-shaven. “You see, we are looking for someone – our little brother, to be precise.”

Tarben looked them up and down. If he had been in Rohan he'd have said they were Jarls, or of those families. As it was the wild lands between Rohan and Ered Luin had no nobles or rich folk of any kind. They barely supported those farming families, villages and little towns that did manage to scrape a living there. Whoever they were, these two must be very far from home. “A terrible thing to loose your kin in lands like these,” he said. “What happened?”

“He had bold ideas about seeing the world,” the stranger said. “He ran off, I am sorry to say. But we have no doubt he is out here somewhere.”

There was a confidence in his words that stopped Tarben from pointing out how unlikely it was that their younger brother was still alive let alone in any position to be found. It would be an extraordinary child indeed who managed to... A thought crossed his mind. 

“How old did you say your brother was?”

“He has the look of a boy of fourteen or fifteen,” the man said, his eyes suddenly hungry. “Have you seen such a child then?”

Tarben did not trust either of these strangers. Strider hadn't told him anything of his past, but no-one ran away for any _good_ reasons.If they truly were Strider's family, then what exactly would he be sending the boy back to if he told the truth?

“I haven't as yet,” he told the pair. “But if I do, where might I find you to let you know?”

“There's an inn in Eharbad called the Broken Sword. Leave a message there for a lady called Gilraen, and we will be indebted to you.” The man leapt back onto his horse with uncanny grace, nodded a goodbye, and set off again with his companion following close behind. 

Tarben rejoined the caravan with a pervasive sense of unease. His eyes searched out Strider, and eventually found him emerging from beneath one of the carts. He'd been right – he was the one those men had been searching for. Strider saw him watching and gave him a brief smile of thanks. Yet there was still a nervous tension in his body that made Tarben think he wasn't going to be staying with them much longer.

Sure enough, when the caravan stopped that night, Strider was no-where to be found.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which is tackled the Problem of Moria, featuring irritated Balrogs, exasperated dwarves, and put-upon orcs.

_Summer 2952 continued_

Even in the heights of summer snow still sat atop the caps of the Misty Mountains. Rivers brought spring's snow-melt down from the lower slopes and foothills in gushing torrents, pure and clean to water the green lands far below, opening up the high passes for travellers. Hoarmûrath had been making his slow way along the mountain chain for the past few years, visiting the hundred hundred clans that made these peaks their home. Unlike the Grey Mountains and Gundabad, no Chief-of-Chiefs had ever arisen here to bring them all under one banner – save Mairon of course. There had been some great Goblin who had made an attempt at it a little over a decade past, but he had only ever ruled the folk of the smaller pale breed, and then an Istari had put paid to him. 

No, these clans were many and varied, and often buried themselves in cave systems in hard to find places off the known paths, keeping to themselves. Locating them had taken time, which accounted for the slow progress Hoarmûrath had made. Yet every Orc and Goblin he had spoken to had been receptive to the news he brought, eager enough to bow under this new God and his new banner. He appreciated their faith – although it was true enough they had little else to cling to. They were the most hated of the races of Arda, and neither Man nor Elf of Dwarf would treat with them save by the sword. If perhaps the Orcs had been able to seek some kindness elsewhere, the long years that the powers of Darkness had seemed to abandon them might have taken its toll on their devotion. 

So Hoarmûrath had gathered the sworn promises of all these petty chiefs, but there was one greater Kingdom left in the mountains that he had not yet explored. Moria. Khazad-dûm, greatest of the dwarf-halls after long-lost Belegost. He had heard many rumours of it amongst the varied peoples of the tribes he had visited. That the last of the Gods walking the earth yet dwelt there, that the holiness of its deep places was a magnificence to look upon, that the chiefs it bred were near the match of those of Gundabad. But nothing that was anything more than rumour. Moria kept to itself it seemed, although emissaries from other orcish clans were occasionally allowed through its great doors. 

Bolg's father Azog had been one such, almost a hundred and fifty years ago, until the battle that had cost him his arm and the dwarves King Thrain. 

Last year Hoarmûrath had been with a clan on the eastern slopes of Fanuidhol and had wintered with them until the Caradhras pass reopened. He had made the crossing westwards in the spring, wishing to seek out news from the lands of Eriador. It had taken some weeks riding to find a human habitation large enough to have knowledge of doings in the region at large, and then there had been little of any significance to trouble him. Some increase in bandit activity that was now settling down, but otherwise nothing. He had headed back towards Moria. 

Now he urged his mount up the steep path to the Western Gate. The land was barren here, strewn with rocks and scree, though some tough grasses and even wild-flowers had managed to force their roots into the sparse soil. Above him, a massive aqueduct of dwarvish design now spewed its waters out into empty air, the stream simply dissipating into mist in the great distance it had to travel to meet the ground. The rumble of the fall was the only sound to be heard – it seemed no birds or other creatures came too close to the pool above. Hoarmûrath could feel that there was something there, some creature guarding the approach. Hisë, Ring of Mist, let him feel out the shape it made in the still waters. 

When he reached the little lake, Hoarmûrath left Polda tied to an outcrop of stone and approached alone. The mare had stood him in good stead all these years, steady as a goat on the mountain paths, although his magic had to do more and more work now to ease joints made rough and sore with age. He could extend her lifespan, but only so long. Perhaps he would head to Rohan for a new mount after his work in the mountains was done. 

The creature did not immediately show itself. Hoarmûrath took the faint track around the shoreline towards the gate, marked by two ancient trees many centuries old. The moon-silver inlay was clear to his dead eyes despite the sun overhead. It had the unpleasant sheen of elvish magics. Little wonder this gate was seldom used. He turned away from it and faced the waters. 

“ _Guardian of the Way_ ,” he called, in the Black Speech. “ _I am Hoarmûrath of the Nine_.”

A dark, slick form rose up, supported on many limbs. The creature blinked at him with huge wet eyes, but made no other motion either to speak or to attack. 

“ _It is my intention to enter_ ,” Hoarmûrath told it. Evidently the beast had no quarrel with this, for it subsided back again and disappeared from view. The Nazgûl turned back to the doors. There was a riddle written above them in runes of the same substance as the inlay. It might have taken some while to come to the correct conclusion about it, but he had already been given the secret to the entrance on his travels. 

“ _Mellon,_ ” he said, the word burning like fire in his mouth. It seemed to hang in the air, and then the gates swung open with the rumble of rock on rock. Inside, the architecture of Moria looked much like Erebor, albeit that the lamps here were dark, and many smashed, and the scent of dust and mould lay heavy on the air. There was no sign of life, but nor would there be, so close to the surface. 

Yet there was power here. He could feel it, deep down in the stone. He knew the tales of that which had been woken here; Durin's Bane. Balrog. Melkor's favoured. Who knew when it had come to lie in the depths beneath the mountains, perhaps even as long ago as the First Age, until the dwarves had awoken it. A pity, Hoarmûrath thought, that they had not known of it when the Last Alliance moved against them. But that was a time long past, and there was little point in 'what-ifs'. 

The Balrog might be less likely than the dragons to want to come to some agreement with Kulkodar, but Hoarmûrath had a duty to at least try. There were perhaps three or four beings left in this world that could stand against a Balrog; the Istari and Glorfindel, who had bested one before. All others would fall before its might.

Hoarmûrath followed the path down and in.

\----

There was little that gave her cause to wake from her slumber these days. Mazat had been weary of the world ever since their old kingdom had fallen, since white light – sunlight and moonlight – had triumphed, and locked Melkor away beyond the void. The _uruk_ saw to it that she went undisturbed, for she was their rightful god, and they her worshippers. Only once in recent memory had she needed to rouse herself to go forth and that had been due to the burrowers, the deep diggers, that dared to come into a realm where they did not belong. The deep places were Melkor's, given over to his creatures, not these twilight creatures carved from stones. 

It had always seemed unfair that Aule's creations had been given mercy, when none of Melkor's had even that chance.

Still, that had been some years past, and she had not had to waken since then. Yet in the present moment she found herself part-roused from slumber by something perhaps as small as a change in the air, the sense that something new had come into her realm. Mazat's eyes opened to slits peering out at the darkness, the fire within the shadows of her form beginning to burn more fiercely. 

She was not the only one that had become aware of this intrusion. Dargum, one of her Priestesses, was descending the long stair down into her chamber-cavern, her claws clasped in front of her in a supplicating gesture. 

“Great God Mazat,” Dargum said when she was close enough to be heard. “I come to tell you of a thing, though I do not doubt you already know it.”

“Something walks above,” Mazat said, turning her gaze upwards. She could not see through the stone itself, but she knew every crevice and hall beneath these mountains. She could feel the thing, Man-sized or Elf-sized. Yet it did not feel ill. “Bring it to me. Alive.”

“It shall be done, Great God.”

Mazat settled herself down again to wait, though keeping her awareness on the happenings above. She could feel the _uruk_ mustering their numbers, their nets and traps. She could feel them approaching the stranger and then... A power she knew, albeit but the trickle of it! Mairon! Their old lord's lieutenant. She had oft wondered what he had done after the end of the war – those of Melkor's Maiar that remained had scattered to the corners of the world, and she had heard nothing of them in all the long ages since. Perhaps some word had been passed through the _uruk_ of where she lay, and he had sent one of his own servants as emissary to her. 

It seemed the events above had not come to greater violence, for she now perceived that the stranger had joined a group of her _uruk_ , and was following them where they bade. The greater number of them stopped at the entrance to her temple-home, and only Dargum and the stranger came on. Her eyes sharp in the darkness spotted the creature at the top of the stair. 

It was a dead thing, pinned still to this plane of existence by the spike of the spell-band it wore upon its hand. It had been a Man once, she saw, and had known something of magic. Most of its form was not visible in the mortal plane, but it had garbed itself in a dark cloak to give itself shape. It was a thing of Mairon's sure enough. He had been fond of traps, and had scorned no methods that were necessary in their struggle against the Valar. 

“My Lady,” it greeted her as it approached, bowing. 

“Why do you come to my realm, little dead thing?” she asked it. 

“At the bidding of my master,” it replied. “I am Hoarmûrath, of the Nazgûl, the Nine Sorcerous Dead.”

“How _does_ Mairon fare in these days?” Mazat asked. 

The dead man paused. “I am no longer bound to Mairon's service,” he said. “There is much news of the outside world, and the happenings of the past few years to tell you to fully explain my situation.”

“Then speak. You have my interest.”

So the dead man told her of the small creature once called Bilbo Baggins, and his mastery of a Ring which held power over these Nazgûl – and then went back to the beginning of _that_ tale to explain how Mairon had forged the device to refine his power, locking much of it away in the simple golden band in the process. He told of the Quest for Erebor, of her cousins the Urulóki, of the small creature coming into his own, singing them back from the beyond, of the name he had been given of Kulkodar. He told of Kulkodar's ambition, and his own part in it. 

Mazat found that much had happened outside her walls in the long millennia of her slumber, and much of it ill. 

“So you come to me in the name of a God who is not a God,” she said, leaning over the dead thing. Mairon had never been her favourite person, but he had been Melkor's, and she would rather him than some stranger of green earth and growing things. “And ask for what?”

“For nothing not freely given,” Hoarmûrath replied. She saw he had been aware of her growing displeasure, but had spoken the truth despite it. He was not without courage in the face of a God. “We do not wish to impose on your sovereignty. But we would not have your enmity either. Peace is all we desire.”

“Your _master_ may have done my cousins a favour, but he is _not_ a god!” Mazat roared. “Take back that word to him, dead thing! As to my enmity, the direction that flows is not yet decided!”

\-----

In the first days after the battle of the five armies, Fíli had not understood what it meant to be a King's heir. In Ered Luin Uncle Thorin had been important, but he had never held himself apart from their people like the lords of Men. He had done what he could to help everyone, whether that meant working in human smithies, or petitioning their distant kin for aid, or simply being a wise and careful word in the right place when sharp tongues and lack had brought folk near to blows. He had often been busy, but he had always had time for his sister's-sons. 

Afterwards, that time had been less, and those who came to the mountain did not look at Fíli or his brother as they used to. In Ered Luin they hadn't been anyone of particular importance, but in Erebor... things were expected of them now. Their lessons had changed, and Fíli had begun to realise that things would never go back to the way they were. They would not want for anything again, but with plenty came responsibilities as well, and he had wanted Thorin to be proud of him, of them both. 

He and Kíli were Princes now, and he knew they must be turning into good ones because when the people gossiped about them, the words were always complimentary. Nori, the Royal Spymaster, said as much, as did Ondolissë, who for all her growing size had not changed in her colour, which blended into the stone so that she could almost vanish and re-appear at will. Thorin always invited them to his councils, and when Fíli was asked to speak, Balin would often nod his head to him afterwards to tell him he had been wise.

So it was that when he and Fíli were called to the council regarding Khazad-dûm, he knew enough not to react on his first, dwarvish instinct, and wait until they had heard everything that Kulkodar's Nazgûl had to say. 

A fire now burned at all times in the centre of the council table, and the room was kept dragon-hot. Fíli had spent enough time with his scaled friends to be used to it, but he knew it made some of the councillors who had not been part of the Company sweat. It was useful though, and when he and Kíli entered Bilbo was sitting on the inner lip of the octagon playing with the flames, using his magic to twist them into pretty shapes as easily as a dwarf might blow smoke-rings with a pipe. His golden eyes were shuttered with pleasure, but he looked up as soon as they came in.

“Well, now we're all here I suppose we should get on,” he said. “I have some news to share.” Indeed, everyone else was already there, even those two Nazgûl who had remained in the mountain. 

“Aye, news of Khazad-dûm, you said.” This from Balin, who was as hale and hearty now as he had ever been, for all that there had been some talk that old as he was, he should retire sooner rather than later. 

“I'll let Hoarmûrath speak for himself.” Bilbo's hand twisted, the Ring on his finger gleaming, and the flames jumped and rose up into the shape of a hooded figure. It bowed its head. 

“Master.”

“Tell us what you saw,” Bilbo said.

“I entered the mines from the western gate,” the dead man said. “I made no attempt to hide my presence, and so a party of uruk was quick to find me. They attempted first to capture me, which I did not allow. They knew my nature then. I was taken down to the deepest places, where the true ruler of that place dwells; that which you call Durin's Bane. A Balrog of Melkor, as we suspected – one of the Maiar.”

“It is no true ruler,” Thorin growled. “Khazad-dûm is a dwarf-hall and it belongs to our people.”

“The Balrog Mazat has dwelt there since before the fall of Belegost,” the Nazgûl said. “Before your people ever came east to the Misty Mountains.”

Fíli heard the indrawn breath of the others around the table, and could hardly hold in his surprise any more than they could. Glaurung had told him many tales of the First Age in his lessons, tales which brought those unfathomably ancient times into the present and made them real instead of a fairy-tale, but that did not make it any less impossible to grasp the depths of time that lay between then and now. The dragons might be that old, but with their rebirth they did not act it.

“That may be so,” Balin said. “But it was not until Durin delved too deep and awoke it that Khazad-dûm was lost to us. If it has returned to those depths then all we need do is avoid them. Let is slumber in the deep mines. We shall have our halls above and be thankful.”

“Those halls are homes to others now,” Hoarmûrath said mildly. “Where would you have them go?”

“Anywhere else but there!” replied Glóin, with venom. “They have dirtied and usurped the homes of our fore-fathers for long enough.”

“As I understand it,” Bilbo said. “it was not the orcs that drove the dwarves from Khazad-dûm, at least not the first time. That was the Balrog. The orcs only came and found empty halls, and a God to worship. They've lived there ever since.”

“And yet it is ours,” Thorin pointed out. “You helped us in the Quest for Erebor because you knew our cause was just. Will you turn aside now when it is just as clear?”

Fíli glanced at his brother. Kíli looked perturbed, and he understood why. If Erebor had been a dream beyond imagining to them before the Quest, Khazad-dûm was even more so, and although the childhood tales of it had been glorious and terrible in equal measure – for no-one had forgotten the battle of Azanulbizar - neither of them had felt much attachment to the place. There was nothing good there for dwarves, not in the end. Only death. Nor did Fíli believe as he once had in the utter rightness of their race, not after the stories that Glaurung could tell. 

“You know I don't want war,” Bilbo was saying. “You know that's the last thing I ever want.”

“And I know you will still fight when it needs to be done, _sanâzyung_.”

“But we _will_ try diplomacy first, won't we?” Fíli found himself saying. All heads turned towards him. He leaned forwards, spreading his hands on the table for the sense of stability the warm stone gave him. “After all, what do we know about this creature, save what the tales of Durin's Bane tell us? If Hoarmûrath met it, and talked to it, then surely it can be reasoned with. And if the orcs worship it, then it might persuade them to leave without bloodshed if some accord can be reached with it.”

“You speak wisely Fíli,” Thorin told him, smiling, his anger melting away. “We are reasonable folk, after all, and we have had little trouble out of Legolas since that spider hunt five years ago. Let us send a delegation to this Mazat.”

“I will go,” Bilbo said immediately. “I think I ought to. And at least a few of the dragons should come too – they are a sort of cousins to the Balrog after all.”

“If the dragons are going, then Fíli and I should go with them,” Kíli said, his eyes alight with excitement. 

Balin immediately shook his head. “It would not be very wise for both of you to risk yourselves lads. This is no simple journey – the destination is full of dangers, orcs and Durin's Bane itself. Fíli, you are the Heir to Erebor. I will take Kíli with me, if one of you is set on going.”

Fíli's first thought was to point out that the Quest had hardly been safe, and they had both been allowed to follow Thorin then. But there hadn't been much for he or Kíli to be heirs to at that time, so he kept his mouth shut. At least Kíli would have a good story to tell him when he got back.

\----

The watchers from the high places had brought word of approaching wings against the pale summer sky some hours past. Dargum had been given that time to make things ready for the visiting Gods – no simple task, but they had been expecting this ever since the Dead One had left. He had not gone far, but had brought his mount through the caves out through the Eastern Gate where he had made his camp by the Lake of Stars, waiting. Waiting for his master, had been the theory generally agreed. 

She had heard much of what the Dead One had said to the Great God. It had been many years since her particular tribe of the People had come to the vast caves Mahal's burrowers had made, but they had brought the knowledge of all the Gods with them, enough so that she knew well of what the Dead One spoke. It had not occurred to Dargum that the Great God Mazat might not have deigned to know what went on outside Her walls, else she would have spoken up a long time ago, rather than let it be in the words of one who was not of the _Zau-Shapol-kai_. Dargum knew well enough of the Eye and the Honoured Dead, of the Gods of Living Stone. This new God was curious, and she had wanted to ask many questions of the Dead One and learn the sacred secrets he was obviously eager to impart. Of course it would not have shaken Mazat's place at the head of their Pantheon, for She was their Patron and Protector, but it was good to honour all the Gods, no matter how far they had wandered into Sky and Void and Shadow. 

Now Dargum would be given the gift of seeing some of those Gods. Three pairs of wings of Living Stone were coming, and perhaps this Kulkodar himself. She had been making herself worthy of such holiness with concentrated ritual over the past few weeks, and she could only hope it would be enough.

She chose from amongst the lesser Priestesses those she thought best to go forth in greeting with her, and a guard of their fiercest warriors. Chief Thauk stood at her shoulder as she shouted commands at the foot of the Great Stair, getting them all into position. They had brought banners, drummers and chanters, incense that was even now burning and filling the air with sweet perfume. It might be that Mazat would decide these visiting Gods to be Her enemies, but in the meantime...

Dargum's keen eyes saw the dark shapes moving at the Inner Gate before long. The Outer Gate was tall, but also thin, and its height decreased once past the First Hall. There had been two ways in from that place, one of which had been for the use of goods and carts, but it had been blocked off with fallen rubble, leaving only the way that led down to the narrow bridge over a deep chasm. It was not a way sized for Gods, yet none were. 

It had proved little obstacle for them though, she was sure. The first God to enter was as black of skin as Mazat, long and lithe with wings tight-folded to him. He came down the stone with the ease of any of her people climbing rock, and stopped just before the bridge, waiting. Another two of the Gods of Living Stone came through behind him, one shining copper, the other golden green. Then something that might have been Mazat Herself made small, clad in shadow and flame. Kulkodar.

They had brought guards with them too, all in armour, but she paid them little mind. She was in the presence of Gods. 

When all of their visitors had assembled, after some discussion amongst them they came forward over the bridge, the Gods balancing carefully with their claws wrapped around the slender span of stone. The burrowers had made it strong however, and it bore their weight well. Then they were before her, massive shapes with firelight flickering off their scaled skin. She bowed, though not as low as she would have done for Mazat.

“ _Welcome to the Black Cavern_ ,” she greeted them in the Black Speech.

“ _A more pleasant welcome than we were expecting,_ ” the gold-and-green God replied. “ _Or perhaps your God has mellowed in the past weeks._ ”

Dargum shrugged. “ _A God is a God_ ,” she said. “ _And besides, you have only come to talk.”_

_“We hope so,”_ the God said, and smiled in the way of the People, eyes half-lidded and neck bared.

“ _I am Dargum_ ,” she told them. “ _First Priestess of the Great God Mazat.”_

_“I am Glaurung, First of the First,_ ” the green-gold God said. “ _These are Ancalagon and Calarus, my brothers. And this_ ,” he indicated the slight shadowed form stalking out from between his legs, “ _is Kulkodar, Father-Singer, Ring-Master, and one who would bring justice to all.”_

“There's no need for all that Glaurung,” the little God said in Westron, then in the Speech, “ _We are very glad of your hospitality. I have certainly come to talk – violence would be the last thing I want.”_

_“Then you shall see Mazat_ ,” Dargum said, nodding. “ _She has been told of your coming. And what of your guards?”_

_“They have come to talk as well._ ” Kulkodar beckoned one of them forwards. The armour it wore was dwarvish, she now saw, and when it took off its helm – made with eye-pieces of dark glass – it was indeed one of that race. She bared her teeth at it. What right did a burrower have to be around Gods? They had no respect for them – and was it not wearing its stolen gold braided in its hair right now?!

“Kíli, son of Dis, at your service,” the burrower said, baring its own teeth right back. She had to remind herself that this was the creature's idea of a smile, rather than the warning _she_ had meant by it. 

“A dwarf and an orc in the same cave do not talk,” she replied in Westron. 

“First time for everything,” the burrower said. The other burrower-guards had made their way across the narrow bridge to cluster around the edge of the hall. They stank of metal. 

“What is there to say? You take, we guard.” She gestured at him, knowing she could explain it better in Black Speech. “Worms in the ground, eating the bone of the earth.”

The dwarf seemed confused. She rolled her eyes. She had not expected it to understand. 

The God Kulkodar spoke. “You mean that your quarrel is the same as that of the dragons?”

“ _You are a very new God if you do not know that,_ ” she told him. “ _When Melkor made us, He told us the secrets of his fellow-Gods, and what was theirs. The deep caves to the Horned Walkers, precious things to Living Stone. Only a God can say what can be done with those things, only they can give permission. But Mahal's burrowers care not and steal whatever they like, do with it whatever they like, and given no thought to its rightful owners.”_

_“And have any of you ever told any of them that?”_

She only did not laugh because he was a God. “ _When? It has been too long. In between one axe-blow and the next, should we say it? And it is not simply that, but that we have taken back the places they profaned and tried to make them holy again, made our homes there, and they want them back.”_

_“It is why they asked me to come here,”_ the God said. 

Dargum snorted. “ _They ought to do what_ you _say, not the other way around. But I suppose that at least they now suffer the presence of Gods, and maybe they might learn what it means to have Gods watching over you.”_

_“Then help teach them,”_ Kulkodar said. “ _Tell them what you have told me. Tell them_ why. _Talk, whilst I talk to Mazat.”_

_“Because you wish it,”_ she said, and beckoned one of the lesser Priestesses to lead them down and in to where Mazat lay. It seemed she had her own God-given task here. 

\----

Kíli had a lot to think about during the flight back to Erebor. Bilbo had come out of his meeting with the Balrog quiet and thoughtful, and he hadn't said anything to any of them about the answer she had given. But if what the orc called Dargum had told him was right, they would never give Khazad-dûm back, because the mithril made it holy. He understood the concept, but it seemed to him that mithril was more holy made into something useful and beautiful than stuck in the ground where no-one could see it, but then, that was the whole problem that the orcs had with his people. 

He didn't even want Khazad-dûm back, for himself, and he knew his brother felt the same. So many dwarves had died there... It would feel like living in a graveyard. And they didn't even have the numbers to fill Erebor yet, never mind Khazad-dûm, although that was changing with every year. There had never been so many births, and he knew who to thank for that. 

The older dwarves would never stand for it though. Not even if he explained. But maybe they would if Bilbo did. Everyone listened to him, and that made sense, because he knew so many things because of the Ring and the Nazgûl and the Dragons, and they gave him good advice to be passed on. 

Yes, things would all be alright when Bilbo spoke to the Council.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the embassy from Erebor returns, Strider discovers a mystery in Rohan, Angmar prepares for war, and Bilbo starts to make his plans known in Dale.

Glóin had not expected any good to come of the embassy to Khazad-dûm, not given who led it. Ten years and more now, and still they were no closer to ridding Erebor of the corruption that sat at its heart. He had gathered good dwarves around him over the years, others who had been strong enough of will to resist the compulsion of the Creature for long enough to realise the truth, and they had met with some small success in sabotaging some of its doings, such as stealing back a number of the shipments of metals and stones meant for those damned drakes. But as to killing the dragons or their master and progenitor, they had had no luck. They had tried poison of course, but it seemed immune to everything. One or two of their number with no families left and nothing to loose had attempted open combat, but the ease with which the Creature swept them aside was disheartening. No, it all came down to the Ring it wore, in the end. Find some way of parting it from that, and he was sure things would become much more simple. 

But for now he had to keep a tight hold on himself and keep his mouth quiet at the meetings of Erebor's council. Let the Creature make its pronouncements, build the new Erebor in the image it wanted. Sometimes it could be mitigated, but not, he suspected, on such a thing as the question of Khazad-dûm. It had spoken already with Thorin in private, and they had come out of his chambers quiet and subdued. Perhaps they had argued. If so, Glóin had no doubts who had won.

Now it beckoned Kíli forwards to speak of what he had seen. Glóin had done his best to stop the young princes going astray with words in those ears of those he thought might have that power, but it had been all for naught. It had been for naught ever since the first drake hatched and cast the fell spell of its eyes upon them. They were as lost as Thorin, and if Glóin's plans failed, then the entirety of the line of Durin would go with them. Sometimes it seemed hopeless, but then, dwarves were not made for despair.

Kíli spoke, of the great caves, of the orcs, of _talking_ to them – Mahal, of all things! The young dwarf's words were impassioned, but Glóin heard no good sense within them, only the puppet-mastery of the dragon-lord and its servants. As though they would give up Khazad-dûm, greatest of the dwarf-halls! Give up what they had fought for, that their ancestor's hands had hewn! He could barely keep his horror from his face. Nor was he the only one of the Council who found the idea unpalatable.

“What does all this matter?” Bahir, one of the scholars said, although he was not one of Glóin's people. “We hate orcs, they hate us, the reasons now are academic to say the least. What matters is that if we so wish, with the strength our people have regained and with the dragons behind us, Khazad-dûm is ours for the taking!”

“I said I did not want war,” the Creature began. 

“You said talk first, and we have. It did not succeed, therefore we have little choice.”

“We have all the choice in the world,” Kíli snapped. “Why would any of us see more of our people's blood shed, and to what purpose? Khazad-dûm is vast, and we could not fill it. It is a place that has only ever brought ill luck and death.”

Glóin bent his head forwards to hide the horror and disgust that he could not suppress. To see a Prince of Durin so little concerned with his own heritage as to speak those words... As though he had forgotten everything that made him dwarvish. Murmurs of displeasure echoed around the chamber. 

“And what does King Thorin say to this?” another councillor asked angrily. 

There was a long moment of expectant silence. 

“Now is not the time for war,” Thorin said slowly. His fingers rested on the black obsidian of the table, reflected in the sheer polish. The Ring of Durin glinted on his finger. “Kíli is right, we are too few. Perhaps in years to come...”

“We have waited long enough!” Glóin found himself saying, no longer able to hold back. But nor was he the only one to object. Angry voices rang out from every side, arguments tossed back and forth with such virulence and accompanying cursing that individual threads could hardly be made out. Glóin was shouting as loud as anyone, taking the chance to vent the fury that was boiling inside of him whilst he could be sure enough that his actual words would be lost to the furore. 

“ENOUGH!” With a flash of red fire, the Creature's voice loud as a dragon's roar stopped everyone in their tracks. “Listen to your King! There will be no war.”

Glóin felt the warding tattoos over his chest and back burning. There was a spell in the Creature's words, a spell the runes were only just resisting. He could see its effects in the unprotected councillors, their eyes growing glassy, and all their objections disappearing like wisps of smoke. The dragon-lord looked around, satisfied by what it had wrought. 

They had to kill it. Things could not continue on as they were. 

\----

_Autumn 2952_

Strider crossed the border into Rohan on a fast and stolen horse. He made a target easier to track mounted than on foot, but when it came to his adopted brothers, it was more important to be fast than subtle. He'd overheard their conversation with the mercenary's son Tarben well enough from his hiding place; if his mother was co-ordinating the search from Eharbad, the largest town in the wild lands north of Rohan, he knew there would be Dúnedain now in every town and stopping place along the main road, and patrolling the lands around them. Staying with the caravan wouldn't have been a good idea – most people, he had come to see, were free with their words when there was a hint of scandal or reward in the air. Making his own way on foot had been safe in the short term, but they would have found him sooner or later. 

It had been a good thing really that the bandits had come across him first.

Strider had grown used to the sight and smell of blood, to the weight of a sword striking lightly-armoured flesh, to the reality of battle when loosing meant his life, not just landing in the dust with Elladan and Elrohir laughing at him. It had been very horrible at first, to see what he was capable of. Men moved so slowly compared to Elves that the first time he had thought they were playing with him because they thought him young and untrained, but they had gotten no faster even after he had killed one of them. And it had been easy to do it, because the bandits _weren't_ trained, not as he had been. He had known so very little of the world; he understood that now. But although it had made him sick afterwards, that had been less each time the caravans were attacked, each time he went into battle again and let the sword-dance sweep him up. 

But it had been almost two years now since leaving Imladris, plenty of time to become accustomed to his new life, and besides, wasn't this what he had wanted? To do what Rangers did? He had been protecting people, and Strider felt proud of that at least. It had been a long time to stay out of the notice of those looking for him though. He had expected to have to move on earlier than this, and he had been thinking about where he would go next. Tarben, the leader of the group of caravan-guards he'd been travelling with last, had told him many fine tales passed down from his father about fighting against evil creatures and people in Gondor and Rohan. Gondor was very far away, and besides that he felt uneasy about going there, knowing what he did of Lord Elrond's plans for him, knowing of the bloodline that he had this unwanted claim to. But Rohan was both close enough that it was the clear next step, and far enough away that it no longer fell under the claim of the Dúnedain. 

So Strider had taken a horse from the small group of robbers who had thought him an easy target and ridden south, avoiding the main road, taking a long and wandering route cross-country south then east, until he saw the flanks of the Misty Mountains in the distance to the north, and the peaks of the White Mountains through mist and cloud to the south. He was upon the Gap of Rohan, following the wide river-valley of the Isen into the country of the Horse-Lords. 

He had just rejoined the Great South Road when he came across a party of rough-looking men on foot, all armed and armoured with worn but well cared-for gear. They had with them a high-sided cart covered over with thick sack-cloth, fastened down tight as a drum-skin. As he rode closer, Strider began to think he heard strange noises, high-pitched squeaks and yelps, although perhaps it was merely that the wheels of the cart were lacking in grease. The strange men glared at him as he approached. They were wild-looking even by the usual standards for travellers on this road, and by the blue tattoos on their bare arms and faces he thought they were perhaps Dunlendings. That would be odd though, for unless Imladris' information was much out of date, the Dunlendings and Rohirrim were not friends. 

“Move along you,” one of them said to him when he slowed from a trot to a walk beside them. 

“I just wanted to make sure I'm going the right way,” Strider replied cautiously. It was really mere curiosity that had made him stop, but they didn't look like they would take kindly to that explanation. 

“There's only one road,” the same man replied, sneering at him. “It's either west or east, and if you can't tell that apart you're more a fool than you look.”

“Then perhaps you can give me some advice instead,” Strider began. 

“Yeah, to the darkness with you, and don't talk to strangers who don't want you there,” another man said, with an unpleasant laugh. 

“I just want to know where the court of the nearest Jarl might be found.” Strider had now noticed that their gear bore an unfamiliar sigil – a white hand, not painted on with any particular care but simply the mark of their own palms dipped in paint or clay. It was not like any of the signs of the houses of Rohan that he had seen in his lessons. 

“What does a child want with a Jarl?” one sneered. 

Strider thought better of continuing this line of conversation, for it was clear it led nowhere. If they did know something that could be helpful they would not tell him, and nor were they likely to give any clue to their identities or their mission in these lands. He was about to urge his horse onwards when he heard the strange noise again. It could not be simply the squeak of wheels. It was a high-pitched whimper, a yelp muffled by thick cloth. The heavy cover over the cart concealed all signs of movement, but he was sure it had come from in there. 

“What is that?” he asked, his hand moving from the reins to the hilt of his sword in what he hoped was an unobtrusive manner. 

“What's what?” the leader snapped, looking if possible more irritated than before. 

“The noise.”

Faces became even more unfriendly. “No concern of yours boy,” the leader said, hefting his axe meaningfully. “Ride on to your Jarl.”

“No,” said Strider, not liking this at all. “I don't think I will.” These men were suspicious beyond any explanation, and whatever was in that cart they wanted no-one to see it. His imagination conjured up images enough – thoughts which might not have occurred to him in Imladris, but certainly did after so many long months listening to hard folk on the south-road. “I say again, what have you there?”

He caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned the horse as he saw it and thus missed the blow that would have crippled the gelding, letting the man overbalance with the force of his own swing. Strider drew his sword in one swift movement, and then the battle was met. 

Fighting on horse-back was more an advantage when the horse was trained for it, but Strider did not need that much help to prevail. The strangers were no better fighters than any others he had met thus far, although they seemed at least to be used to mounted men. His horse was cut out from beneath him soon enough and he rolled away from the cooling corpse to continue the fight on foot, laying about him with a line of flashing steel. The blade spun in his hands and men died. Soon there were none left to stand against him – the remnants had run, dragging their wounded with them. Strider smiled in satisfaction; a cold smile, certain in himself and certain that whoever those men might be they had not been on any errand of good. 

He went to the wagon and cut the cords that held the canvas down, flinging it back to let the light in. Cries erupted, and a frenzy of wriggling movement, and Strider stared down at the contents of the cart in utter astonishment. 

Pale little grey-skinned creatures bound with heavy rope filled the small space, hissing at the sun with narrowed eyes and bared fangs and trying to crawl into what remained of the darkness. Not that they could much hiss, for there was a length of rope as a gag in each of their mouths, thick enough to withstand the gnawing of sharp teeth. 

Strider had never seen an orc before, and particularly not a young one, for these did have the slenderness and roundness of youth. But there was nothing else they could be except orcs. They glared up at him, and shrank back when he came a little closer. How old were they? Orcs were shorter than Men on the whole, though not as short as Dwarves, and these were smaller than some human children. Why would anyone have a cartful of captured orclings?

One, he thought, looked a little older, though still younger than he himself was. He sheathed his sword and drew a knife instead. He met the orc's suspicious eyes as he leant towards it, moving slowly to seem less a threat. There was a pungent, if unfamiliar, smell filling the back of the cart that he had to categorise as unwashed orc. Carefully, he slid the blade under the rope and began to cut. Finally, the gag came free. The orc spat it out, sneering and then licking its lips and working its jaw as though to get the taste from its mouth.

Strider waited, but it did not seem inclined to speak. 

“What did those men want with you?” he asked it eventually. It scowled at him, and said something in a language he didn't understand. Likely the Black Speech, for he had been taught many tongues in Imladris, and it was like none of them. 

“Do you speak any Westron?” he asked it. 

“Don't speak,” it said. “Little-little.”

“But you understand it?”

“Some.” It said some more in the Black Speech, rolling its eyes as it did so. 

Strider took a step back and thought, keeping his knife up although none of the orcs seemed able to attack. Orcs were evil. Everyone knew that. They raided innocent people, stole and killed. They were servants of Sauron who had tried to conquer all of Arda. If he had met them in the forest he would have killed them, although... perhaps not if they were as little as these. Most folk would have killed them. So why were these ones alive, and in a cart heading for who knew where?

As he stood in deep consideration, he noticed that the older orc had been shuffling forwards, letting the littler ones crowd further back, and was hovering in front of them protectively. It bared its teeth at him, even though its hands were still tied behind its back. 

He couldn't kill them. Not helpless like this. It would be wrong. 

“I'll give you the knife,” he said eventually. “And then I'll leave. When you've freed yourself... go. Somewhere far from here.”

The orc nodded. Strider tossed it the little blade and walked away. He heard it rasping against rope, but he didn't look back – he was sure it would free the others rather than coming after him. His sword was slick with gore – he would have to find somewhere to clean it, and himself. The mystery of the men he had killed did not seem to be one with any answer that was easy to find, and he had other plans than going searching for clues. 

Although that did not mean it wouldn't remain, heavy and curious, in the back of his brain. 

\----

_Winter 2952_

Korb's warg picked her way up the less-used northern trail towards the great fortress at Carn Dûm. His mount was Nujol of the Fox-blood Clan, swift, sure-footed and clever, and her coat was thick and winter-white. She had little to fear from the ice and snow that lay heavy on the ground, her massive paws bearing them easily over the drifts. Clad in bear-furs, Kolb had made this long journey without fear, despite the frequent blizzards that came at this time of year. 

Ahead upon the mountain lay the fortress itself, with the city lying in the valley below, all fallen into ruin in the long centuries since the Kingdom had lost the favour of the Gods and been brought low by the _tarks_ , and now rebuilt stone by stone, the work of strong hands brought together once more under the will of the Gods. The King of the Hallowed Dead was come unto his Kingdom again. 

Korb had been a clan-chief; now he was a messenger, an emissary, a Lieutenant in an army that was reforging itself. He had been sent forth to take an accounting in the lands, to assay the mines and quarries, the forts and castles, the clans of every strain of the People. The Sword of Angmar, who now stood as Chief-of-Chiefs, had commanded it so. Now he was returning, bringing word of what he had seen. It was all of it good. 

The People had gathered in the city again in great numbers, and traffic and trade made the south-routes ever busy with laden carts and beasts of burden. Kolb could see _uruk_ thronging the streets even from the mountain-trail, and he bared his neck in pleasure at the sight. This was the glory of the People come again. When the time came they would sweep south across the degenerate lands of the _tarks_ as they had once before, and this time there would be no armies to answer them. The race of Men had fallen far in the North-lands, and they did not have the _uruk's_ gift for renewal. It would be little challenge. 

The great gates of the fortress stood open before them, and the wide halls and corridors were sized for all the creatures of the shadows to pass. There was room enough and more for Nujol to bear him on her back as far as the throne-room. He dismounted when they entered and pushed his way through the throng of the court. On the throne upon the dais sat the King's vessel, the Sword of Angmar, an _uruk_ not over-large in stature, but wreathed in darkness, leaning forward over a black blade ever unsheathed, eyes aglow with green fire. 

Kolb bowed before the throne, to the degree appropriate towards the King of the Hallowed Dead. The Sword's head came up, and the hollow eyes focused in upon him. 

“What news do you bring?” the Sword said, with the voice of the Dead. 

“I went forth to all the clans from here to Fornost,” Kolb said. “All bow to your rule, Dread King. The ancient mines and quarries have been re-opened, and work proceeds apace on the forts we had long past abandoned. In the years since your return, most have been restored – of those that have not, those which are the larger, there remains only a few more years work to be done. The People no longer war with each other, for you have commanded it, oh Chief-of-Chiefs. Their minds instead are turned to the increase of our numbers.”

“And the farms and flocks?” the deathly voice asked him.

“The knowledge of such had been passed down by the Singers, as the Lore instructs. We are not used to it, but we learn well from the experience taught by the years' passage. The flock-beasts had become wild, but we are taming them.”

“The obedience of the _uruk_ is always a pleasure,” the Sword said. 

“Who would not serve the Will of the Gods?”

“There are some.” The Sword referred to Gundabad, Kolb knew. King Angmar had warned them that some false God had set itself up in the east, some servant of the Eye that thought itself better than a true God. It had bewitched the Mountain-Clans, and even the mighty Chief Bolg, child of Azog, had fallen beneath its spell. Thus they had been commanded to stay within their borders, and let none go forth to Gundabad or the Mountains, or to enter from those places. The Kingdom had set itself apart. They would slay Men first, and free the other clans later, after hubris and the Eye tore at the strength of the False One. 

“Their time will yet come,” the Sword said. “and the False One shall fall beneath the might of Angmar. But that day is not this one, not our strength yet their match. At spring's end we shall make our march south, and the borders shall swell as the numbers of the _uruk_ swell.”

“It shall be as you command.”

\----

_Summer 2955_

The lands upon the eastern border of Dale were hard ones, with cruel winters and wet summers. It was mid-spring before the ground began to thaw enough for the planting of crops, and by mid-autumn if would freeze again. As the soil softened, so did the roads, until mud a foot thick fouled any who tried to walk the wrong trails. This was the demesne that Baron Dobromir had to rule, and at times he thought he'd be better rid of it. Even the hunting was poor, and there was little else to keep the mind occupied. Few bards came here, and even if he'd wanted one of the peasants to take up such as position at his court, who would teach them? The merchants who ventured these roads came for timber and the produce of the dwarvish mines, and did not carry books or scrolls. The only things written on vellum here were tallies. 

Dobromir had certain ambitions though. The land was poor, the people were poor, but he did not have to be poor, not for much longer. There was wealth ready for the taking, if a man were clever and cunning, and strong of will. He had begun the venture that would bring him his due rewards three weeks past, and did not anticipate having to wait much longer. 

In fact, he supposed it was about time that he rode out to check on the progress of his project. 

The salt mines of Othrit lay a day's ride from his hall through the taiga. Along with his retinue, Dobromir took a trail less used, in order to avoid the thick mud of the main road. His men customarily laid cut trunks over the worst parts to prevent carts from becoming mired, but it still made for hard going, and would have been a much slower way to travel. The mines themselves lay to the north, at the foot of steep slopes that stretched away to eventually become the Iron Hills. The land around had been cleared of tree cover, and a paved road had been set with stone rubble. Wooden cranes and pulleys weaving complicated rope patterns stood silent and still over shaft mouths. 

As per his instructions, Dobromir's soldiers had heaved shut the rain-doors and secured them from the outside – all save one. That one was left open, albeit under heavy guard. He spurred his horse over to it and the sprawl of tents around it. At his approach, one of his Captain's saluted and came towards him. 

“What progress?” Dobromir asked. 

“They're stubborn,” the man replied. “But that's dwarves for you. We'll starve them out eventually. They're starting to look bony enough.”

“Do they keep within range of a call?”

The Captain nodded. “We speak to them often enough,” he said. “Tell them what's all waiting out here, food and clean water and such. They mostly curse at us in their own tongue.”

“And you are sure they got no message out to their kin?”

“They tried the Ravens once or twice but we shot them down.”

Dobromir nodded, satisfied. If any of the other dwarvish strongholds found out about this there would be trouble of the sort he didn't have the manpower to deal with, but if he could only get them to sign a contract he knew enough of how their laws worked to know they would be powerless to take revenge. The dwarves would continue working the salt mine of course; it was terrible work and known to kill Men, but they seemed much more resistant to it. All the profits though would come to him, and then he would have the gold to make this backwater a power to be reckoned with in the Kingdom of Dale. He thought of the mercenaries he would be able to hire and smiled. 

Then he heard the cries. Soldiers shouted, pointing up at the sky. Dobromir turned in the saddle and saw the vast shape blocking out the sun. 

Great wings churned the air with the force of a gale. Massive clawed feet hit the ground with an impact that shook the earth. His horse made a noise like a scream in terror and reared. Dobromir tried to keep his balance and failed, falling with a thud that shocked all the breath out of him. 

By the time he had recovered himself enough to become aware of his surroundings again, he found that most of his men had fled, and he was all but alone, staring up at a huge horned head glaring back at him from far too close. 

“Just what do you think you're doing?” the storm-grey beast said. Its voice boomed around him like thunder. Its breath stank of sulphur and fire. Dobromir crawled backwards on his elbows, gasping for breath. He couldn't seem to look away from its sun-yellow eyes. Dragon. Dragon. 

“I believe we are certainly owed some answers,” another voice said. It was a figure of shadow and smoke with eyes of fire. He knew who it was – who it had to be. Kulkodar, of whom rumour spoke in awed whispers. Commander of dragons and fire and the very earth itself. Consort of King Thorin of Erebor – or whatever that term might truly mean amongst dwarves, as surely it couldn't be what it sounded like. It was impossible to ascribe so human and normal a thing to a creature such as this. 

He knew he was surely as good as dead. One of the Ravens must have gotten through. He'd had as much right as any Lord to do what he'd done – the mine was under his land and should rightfully be his – but he knew this dwarvish ally wouldn't see it that way. What would be the point in arguing his case?

The dragon's head drew back, snorting smoke. “He's a coward,” it said contemptuously. “Fear holds back his tongue.”

“Move back a little Raumo,” Kulkodar said. “I want to hear what he has to say for himself.”

Dobromir took the reprieve to gather himself. His mind, which ought to be whirring furiously to find a way out of this mess, seemed stuck in a blanket of fog. The King of Fire – for such tales named him – watched him for a little while, before coming to the realisation that he was not about to speak. 

“Let me tell you then what word has reached me. A Raven-message stated that in your greed you ordered this mine to be besieged, so that the dwarves within would be forced to sign away their property or perish. Do you deny it? The evidence is plain to see all around us.”

Dobromir wetted his lips, though his mouth was dry and his throat tight. “I can't deny it,” he replied, and then at the bidding of a quick thought, “But I beg you to have mercy – I did it for my people, who are poor and starving.”

The figure wrapped in shadows stalked towards him. It had been difficult to judge its height, but close up it was smaller than he had expected. Or perhaps it merely made itself seem that way so as to be less frightening. It reached out its hand. “A token of mine,” it said, “to swear upon.” Dobromir reached out, trembling, and it dropped a little iron ring into his palm. 

“I swear I did this to help my people,” he said, and screamed. The little band had turned to fire in his hand, searing his flesh. He had jerked away from it instinctively but it remained fixed to his skin, glowing red-hot. 

“Liar,” the King of Fire told him. 

“Please,” Dobromir begged, writhing in pain. “Please...”

The creature made a gesture and the heat abated, leaving only the bearable agony of forming blisters. 

“You might remember the edict that was sent out to all of Dale,” Kulkodar said mildly. Dubromir cast his thoughts back. Yes, he did recall some messenger from the city of Dale, bringing word of some system of courts that King Bard meant to found with the backing of the Kings of Fire and Stone, but he had paid it little mind. Justice here was at _his_ word, and he was far enough away to ignore the weak King that he and the other barons had put upon the throne. Now he wished he could recall all that had been said. “It isn't in my nature to do this, and I'd rather not,” Kulkodar continued, “but it seems I must. Put that on.” The ring came loose from his skin, leaving red-raw and weeping flesh behind. Dobromir flinched. 

He was afraid of what would happen if he put the cursed thing on, but he was more afraid of what would happen if he didn't. The dragon still loomed over them both. He did as he was told. 

Then he couldn't remember what he had been so terrified of. 

“You will be my eyes and ears here,” his new leige-lord told him. “You will carry out justice in my name. Your life is still yours, but you shall do nothing like this evil again.”

Dobromir nodded. He had no other choice.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things are not going well in Eriador, Strider engages in some cross-culture conversation, and Hamfast Gamgee receives a social call.

_Autumn 2955_

Arwen heard the orcs before she saw them – mail-clad and marching, they made no attempt to muffle the noise of their armour and boots. She ducked off the path and leapt up into a tree, concealing herself amongst the branches. Despite the twilight, her eyes were still clear enough to count their numbers, and that was information that could be of use, although how much so she did not want to guess. The sun had settled over the rim of the Blue Mountains an hour ago, and though it might have been safer to find some place to hole up for the night she had pushed on regardless. The Enemy's forces moved at night, true enough, but she had not expected to find any so close as this to the Grey Havens. 

Much had changed in the past few years. Her search for the Heir of Isildur had been forced to the back of her mind by unexpected war, or at least war from an unexpected source. Though it should not have been. Natural, for the thing that wore Sauron's Ring to send the chiefest and worst of its servants away to rebuild its own kingdom, and to bring the wrath of that kingdom down on the lands of men. It was the way of Sauron to conquer. 

Eriador was defenceless in the ways of armies, and so the invading orcs had not been challenged as they swept south, but it was not defenceless in all ways. Her father's house remained in the East, protected by Vilya's power, and Cirdan the Shipwright in the West kept the Havens safe. Nor were Men entirely without strength. The Dúnedain, last of the blood of Númenór in these lands, were not numerous to fight in open war, but they now harried the orcs on every flank, striking and slipping away like mist. 

The marching troop passed away up the road and out of even her sight. Silently she dropped back down to the ground, wary of potential stragglers or scouts. Arwen did have a task that she'd be better to be getting on with – although courier work was not perhaps what she'd envisioned for her wanderings, it was no less vital for the web of resistance groups that now lay spread and disparate across Eriador. 

She had not been so unwary as to take the main road east from the Grey Havens, where the orcs had set up permanent camps and guard-posts, but had instead struck south first upon the edges of the Westmarch of the green and rolling land called the Shire. Much evil had come to that land now, pouring down from Fornost just to the north, the mustering-point of the invasion. Although its people had not been slaughtered, as she might have expected, but enslaved, though that was little better. It spoke too of an over-clever mind behind this – none had ever called the Witch-King lacking in cunning or artifice. The Shire was a verdant and fruitful land, and what did an army need more than supplies? 

Still, as far west as she remained, Arwen was just skirting the borders of the Tower Hills, which remained under Cirdan's control. It marked the start of the lands of Men, the remains of Arnor. Even now to her right the ruins of some ancient fort stood black against the pink sunset sky, the kind of place whose memory still bit, where the orcs had not yet had the courage to go. It might do her well enough for a campsite until the morrow. 

The trees became bare rock, grass and gorse as Arwen climbed the slope, and she drew her cloak closer about herself for concealment. It was woven with the enchantments of the Galadhrim, and would fool the casual eye. Reaching the crest of the peak, an empty gate opened like a mouth before her. The wind held whispers. 

They were not for her to fear though. She braved the darkness, placing her feet with care. It would be foolish to risk a torch, although her sight was not so keen without the sun. Her steps were silent by nature, requiring no effort of her movement. 

Arwen stopped. She had heard a sound from up ahead, metal on metal. Not orcs or any other group of travellers, or she would have seen some sign of them further out. Human, hobbit or... perhaps dwarf. This was uncomfortably close to the Blue Mountains. _They_ had nothing to fear from Angmar, although at least they did not yet seem keen on adding their axes to the orcish swords. As to her own sword, this space was too enclosed for it, but she carried knives as well, a habit she had picked up from the Dúnedain. 

The passage she was in opened out into a larger space. There were tall narrow windows along one side which let in a little light, but that was growing less as true night began to assert its dominion. Her eyes made out only vague shapes in the darkness, old stones, broken and fallen. The noise had stopped, but she could not be sure when. 

Movement in the air was her only warning. The axe missed her by inches, and that gave her time enough before the next blow to turn her step backwards into a leap. Her attacker was a shadow amongst shadows, and one that clearly saw better in the darkness than she did. Shorter than her too, and it had an animal stink she didn't recognise. The hiss of an edge cutting the air told her it was twirling its axe, hanging back a little. Wary, and rightfully so, but an orc wouldn't be cautious. Dwarf then. 

“If you leave now, I'll let you,” the dwarf said, surprising her. Arwen hadn't thought them much for diplomacy. “By the time you tell anyone I'm here, I'll be long gone.”

“And leave you to carry out whatever mischief you have planned?” she asked, her knifes held at guard. 

The dwarf muttered something to itself in its own language. Perhaps a curse on the stubbornness of elves. She braced herself; she knew what was coming. 

The fight was not an easy one. Arwen was quicker, more agile, light on her feet, but the dwarf was strong and could see where she could not. But she had been trained by swords-masters with thousands of years of experience, and she had had cause to put that training into use in the past year. She did not kill the dwarf though, because now curiosity had taken hold, and she wanted to know what task had been so vital as to loosen his tongue to bargains. Instead she subdued him with bleeding wounds and a knife at his throat. She held it there while she let her pack slide from her back and retrieved rope to bind him with – at least she thought the dwarf was male. Arwen had heard it could be difficult to tell with dwarves. 

“What now?” the dwarf growled at her, as she pulled him to his feet. “Out we go into the orc-haunted dark?”

“Light first,” Arwen replied. “I want to see you if we're to share a camp all night.” She pushed him down beside one of the windows where a great block of stone had tumbled from far above, leaving a hole overhead that gaped into fathomless heights. She bound him to it, and then went to find a corner where a fire's light would not show to any outside. 

She did not intend to ask the dwarf any questions herself. He would not answer them without encouragement, and she had no stomach for the kind of asking that it would need. No, close as they still were to the Grey Havens, she would take him back there in the morning and leave the matter to Cirdan's judgement. 

\----

_Winter 2955_

Strider had been a sell-sword under the banner of Jarl Cenric for three summers now, and he was finding the work more to his liking than patrolling the roads north, for there was more variety in it. It was not all sword-work, for Rohan was not wild as Eriador was wild, and thus there were fewer outlaws who needed a lord's power turned against them. There were still bandits, and the occasional orc-pack (though those grew fewer every year, he had been told), but also there were local disputes that needed an impartial hand, or visitors – often merchants but not always – who appreciated a man who spoke many tongues. 

It had not been easy to persuade Jarl Cenric to employ him, when he had first arrived. Rohan was not at war, and though rumours of skirmishes in southern Gondor had reached them, the beacons had not been lit asking for oath-sworn aid. Even the Dunlendings had made peace. (Strider had not made any mention of the men he had encountered on the road before hearing that, and he made no mention after. He did not know enough of the Jarl to know if it was the sort of mystery best laid before him.) The Jarl had his own warriors, sworn to him alone, and little need to pay for one whose loyalty could not be absolute. Still, for all the peace and plenty, Strider had skills that other mercenaries did not have, that were not simply wielding a blade, and thus he had made himself useful enough to be worth the small sum of coin that he asked. 

Things had not remained so peaceful in recent months though. Caravans that went north past Eharbad now did not return, and after the first few it was said that men in green cloaks began to turn them back at the gates of the town. Reasons and rumours abounded, but the common thread was always the presence of orcs. Strider had been growing ever more uneasy and worried with each new piece of gossip that came down the road from the north. The Dúnedain were still his people. His mother was still in Eriador. If something terrible was happening there, surely he should return... but if he did he already knew he would not be permitted to help. Instead Elrond and Curunír would put him to use again, maybe drag him all the way to Gondor and set him up as their puppet to achieve... whatever it was that they had planned from the first. 

No. He couldn't help, and so he couldn't go back. But perhaps if things were that bad then his mother might come to Rohan to ask for their help. There had never been any treaties between their people, and nobody in Rohan knew what the Rangers really were, but if the truth came to light then surely... Well. If that happened, then here was the best place for him. 

Strider tried to put the matter out of his mind. He had a task of his own to perform. A man had come from one of the villages due south near the White Mountains with reports of thefts from farmsteads, never in any great amounts, but enough to hurt in winter when what had been laid in for the season was less than ever. King Thengel's new food tithes had not been popular. A bandit taking a few chickens here, a hog or cow there, these were not losses poor families could take. Since the thief could not be found, Strider had been sent to investigate. His skill with tracking was by now well known. 

Strider had travelled out from Cenric's hall with the messenger Leofric, and had spoken to the head of the village upon his arrival. All the farmsteads which had been robbed were those furthest south, those whose lands abutted the steep-climbing slopes of the White Mountains. The thief came always at night. No clear tracks had been left, and though the villagers had tried to set guards of their own folk armed with simple tools, the thief had simply gone to a farm where they were not. Like as not this bandit's lair was in the mountains themselves, but with winter's snow and ice heavy on the land, no-one wished to venture up there in a search that without a clue to act upon would almost certainly be fruitless. 

Thus Strider had ridden out to the farmstead that had most recently been robbed, and cast about for any sign that his more experienced eyes might follow. 

The livestock had all been brought inside for the winter, penned into the lower floor of the homes whilst the farmers and their families slept overhead, which made it all the more surprising that no-one had ever been woken when the thief broke in. True that they did not always take living beasts, but sometimes hauled away a smoked and salted carcass from whatever stores had been laid in, but whoever they were they were silent and very strong, to haul their take up into the mountains. It was only an assumption that there was but one of them – in some ways it would make more sense for this to be the work of a group, but Strider was obscurely sure of his hunch. Perhaps it was something to do with his bloodline, or with being raised in Imladris, but he had often found his instincts to be worth trusting. 

A further light dusting of snow had fallen since the thief had come, which made things more difficult, but eventually Strider found the indents of boots leading away from the farm. They should have been deeper and far easier to see, for he knew that the robber had been carrying a heavy barrel of smoked pork, but instead skimmed the ground in a way that was almost elvish. Not that it could be – stealing was not their way, but Strider had no other way of explaining it. Sighing, he went back for his pack, then began to follow the trail up towards the mountains on foot. 

It would not have been an easy trek even in summer, for the land rose up rapidly and the incline was steep, but when the rough trail was made slippery with snow, it was even harder. Strider had wrapped his boots with a lattice of coarse rope so that they would grip more closely, but even so he found himself sweating and tired. The landscape below spread out in a great flat white swathe, broken only by outcrops of rock, little hillocks and deceptively shallow valleys. The sun was hidden by thick cloud, darker than he'd like. If snowfall threatened, this would not be a good place to be caught out in it. 

He became aware of the sensation of being watched. The trail had led him into a sheltered place between two massive shoulders of stone. From somewhere he could hear the sound of a brook still bubbling under ice. His breath misted the air. It was otherwise quiet and still, and he could see no sign of any other life. And yet still that feeling. 

Then, from behind a rock, someone stood up. 

“So, so!” it said, with a half laugh. “I thought it was you.” 

Strider's hand was already on the hilt of his sword, but he did not draw it yet. The figure was clad in furs from head to foot, even over the mouth and nose, and its eyes were hidden by a piece of leather with strange narrow slits cut into it. He wondered how it could even see at all through that. It was a fair bit shorter than him, shorter than most Men would be. It spoke as if it knew him...

“Don't recognise me Rope-cutter?” it said, and jumped down off the rock, pulling the furs from its face. Slate-grey skin and a mouth with a hint of fangs beneath the lips were revealed, and realisation hit. The orc he had freed on the road. He drew his sword, cursing himself. Here was their thief. 

The orc held up its hands showing it was unarmed, although Strider could now see the tips of its claws poking out of the crude wrappings. “No harm here Rope-cutter,” it said. 

“I thought you did not speak Westron,” Strider said, not lowering his blade.

“I learned.”

“I came here hunting a thief,” Strider said. “And I found one.”

The orc shrugged. “No-one died,” it said. “Took only a little each place.”

“These people have little enough to start with.”

“I've less.” The orc put its hands down slowly, then beckoned. “Show you why?”

Strider hesitated. This did not seem like a very good idea. And yet if the orc had meant him harm it did not need to reveal itself, but could have attacked whilst he remained unaware. Besides, it seemed his actions those three years past had earned him some measure of trust with it, and he _was_ curious. He sheathed his sword. “Very well.”

The orc nodded. The way it led him then took them first further up the trail, and then off along a narrow ledge of rock that it seemed far more at ease with than Strider felt. At the end of it was a wide crack in the rock that proved to lead to a series of caves. As soon as they entered, a low clamouring started up, quiet insistent yips and squeaks. The noise sounded vaguely familiar, but then Strider already had a good idea as to their source. Indeed a small face poked out around a corner, just visible in the dim light from the cave-mouth, and then disappeared again with a noise of fright. The older orc sighed, and went forward saying something in the Black Speech that sounded as though it were meant to be reassuring. 

“You've had a lot of mouths to feed then,” Strider said, sitting down upon a rock. Looking around he could see signs of long habitation – smoke stains on the ceiling, furs and hides scattered around, old gnawed bones in the corner. The smell was like that he had scented in the cart, a heavy musk, albeit somehow cleaner and less acrid in its stink. 

The orc came out of the other part of the cave and squatted down opposite him. The ashes and charcoal of a fire lay between them. “Hunted in summer,” it explained. “But not enough now. Needed more, for all of us.”

“I understand,” Strider said. “But the humans down there, _they_ need what they have to last the winter. With everything they had to send off to Edoras...”

The orc cocked its head at that, looking interested. “Send food to who?”

“To Thengel – the King of this land.” 

“Why does _he_ need it? Is he poor hunter, or just lazy?”

Strider shook his head, frustrated with the question himself. He had been wondering; a lot of people had been wondering in Cenric's hall. “I don't know,” he said. 

“Sure is all going to him?” the orc asked. It tugged at the leather thing covering its eyes until the lacing holding it came free, then set it down by its side. Its eyes were yellow as a cat's. 

“There's no reason for him to need to feed an army or a muster,” Strider said. “Rohan isn't at war with anyone.”

The orc narrowed its eyes, but it did not speak at first, but sat thinking for a little while. “Perhaps not _his_ army,” it suggested. 

Strider sat forward. He thought about the symbol of the White Hand those Dunlendings had worn, a symbol he now knew to belong to Isengard. To Curunír, that old meddling wizard who had plotted with Elrond. Thought about what reason a wizard might have to want a cart-full of orclings. “Do you know why you were in that cart?” he asked. 

“Suspect,” the orc snarled. “Heard things. Stories. White Hand, White Wizard. Orcs are good soldiers.” 

“But he's on the White Council,” Strider protested. “He wouldn't be building some orcish army!”

“I know no council,” the orc said. “too young for those stories or sacred knowledge. But overheard some things. Some new God in far north. My tribe very happy. Say he will protect uruks. If Wizard is scared, might do many things.”

Strider made no reply. He had to think about this. Certainly Curunír had wanted to use him, which he would have thought somebody on the side of good would not do. And Elrond had been worried about something ever since he came back from that long journey over a decade ago. He hadn't heard anything that might make sense of all this in Eriador or in Rohan, but perhaps the rumours simply hadn't spread that far yet. 

If it was true, this was above him. He was only one man, and still a young man at that. Even if he went off to investigate, he doubted he would be able to find the truth out by himself. 

“So,” the orc said, interrupting his thoughts. “Know your name not Rope-cutter. What is?”

“I go by Strider.”

“Name you chose yourself?”

Strider nodded. 

“Then your grown-name. Your meaning-name.” The orc tipped its head back, baring a grubby neck. “Would be I think _Rendas_ , in my tongue.”

“ _Rendas,_ ” Strider repeated, trying out the throatiness that seemed typical of the language. “And you?”

“ _Burguul_. Means Shadow.”

“That is true enough,” Strider said, thinking of how the orc had slipped in and out of the farmsteads. “How is it you can walk so lightly on snow?”

The orc grinned – or rather it showed its teeth, but Strider didn't think it was a pleased expression. “No real trick,” Burguul said. “Just think _Golog_ thoughts.”

“ _Golog?”_ Strider repeated. 

“You know. Pale, ears like uruks, hair long, all old-old.”

“Elves,” Strider said. The orc snorted.

“Yeah,” it said. “ _Golog._ Not everyone can do. Skill means you _laga_ type.” It looked a little frustrated at Strider's quizzical expression. “Like... singing. And then stuff happens.”

Strider thought about the tales of the First Age, of the time before even that. “Magic?” he asked, surprised.

The orc nodded. “Not like wizards,” it said. “But yes.”

Strider hadn't thought orcs knew anything about such things. Well, he knew that magic of some sort or another could be used by more than just the Istari – the Black Númenórians had been known for their knowledge of sorcery, and some of Sauron's servants had been masters of fell magics. Elves had powers natural to their race, and probably dwarves had something, but he had not thought such things would extend to orcs. They did not seem like people who valued knowledge. They did not write things down, they had no books or libraries. And yet he did not doubt what Burguul had said. 

“Did your tribe have many who could do things like this?” he asked. 

“Only one,” the orc replied. “Would have learned from them, when older. But too late now. All dead. Must learn on my own.” 

Strider hesitated. “Is... is everyone else in your tribe dead?” he eventually asked. 

Burguul nodded, made a gesture encompassing the cave. “We are all that is left.” 

Strider could think of no reply to make to this. He would not have felt any sorrow at hearing such news before, but then, he would have heard if from the victorious hunters or soldiers that had carried out the deed, not from the survivors of it. Now... now he felt guilt. He had never actually come across any other orcs in the years since leaving Imladris, but he had heard the warriors speak of killing orcs in Cenric's hall, boasting around the fire. Perhaps it had been as justly deserved as killing any human bandits, but he could not be sure of that. 

In the silence, he looked away to avoid the heaviness that had fallen between them, and his eyes fell upon the opening of the cave to the outside world. Thick snow was coming down, soft and straight without the hint of wind, but with a solid steadiness that suggested it meant to go on for some time. He bit back a curse. It seemed he would not be leaving here any time soon. 

“Already used last wood,” Burguul said, apologetically. “But warmer further in. Think it will settle by morning.”

“I fear you're right,” Strider replied. “Still, if you hadn't found me I might be outside in this, so I will look for what good there is in it.”

Burguul stood and beckoned him into the other part of the cave. It was even darker inside, and he had to grope his way with his hand against the wall. To his surprise though, as they passed through the gap his outstretched fingers met coarse fur rather than stone. Reaching further, he could feel that it continued on, and Strider realised that the orc must have lined the room with pelts to keep warmth from leaching out into the bare rock. Stooping, he felt that even underfoot it was the same. Hastily he began to unlace his boots, so as not to bring their damp in with him. 

From the corner there was hissing, and the vague outlines of shapes that must be the young orcs. Burguul went to them and spoke in their tongue at a little length, a back and forth that clearly consisted of many protestations and replies of reassurances. Eventually though the orclings seemed to settle down and accept the presence of this Man in their home. Strider wasn't sure human children would have been as accepting. 

“Thank you for this,” he said. 

“No matter,” the orc told him. “Repaying debt. Come – lay down here. Have pig-meat.”

“I have my own supplies, but I appreciate the offer,” Strider replied. It was no doubt the stolen pork, and although he could hardly object to their eating it, it would hardly be right for him to do the same. 

He felt his way over the cushioned floor to a dip that was solid under him, but no worse than many beds he had had in the wilderness. His cloak made a sufficient covering, and he found a piece of way-bread in his pack by touch to fill his stomach. It was surprisingly warm in the cave, and he soon found himself drifting into the realm of sleep. 

\----

Butter had just started sizzling in the cast-iron pan when the knock came at the door. Hamfast Gamgee stopped dicing the potatoes and hesitated with the little knife in his hand, his fingers tightening around it. Night had fallen an hour ago, and no decent hobbit would be out of their hole at such a time. That did not leave many good options. 

The knock came again, more insistent this time. Hamfast put the knife down and wiped his hands on his apron before going to the door with a sigh. If it was who he suspected, ignoring it would only mean they'd knock it down. There was no hiding the light from his windows now. Bell and the children were already going through to the bedroom, where at least a casual visitor wouldn't see them.

Years it had been now since the orcs came. It hadn't been like in the White Winter, when wargs and wolves both had come to the Shire out of hunger. This had been organised, and they'd come at summer's end, great long columns of them marching along the roads in dull armour, clanking and thumping with a tread as heavy as any of the Big Folk. The way it was told, there had been some warning about it all from Outsiders in green cloaks who'd brought word to Buckland, and after that the Master of Buckland had sent it on to the Thain by post. The Thain had called out the militia, but that hadn't been much good. When they'd seen how many orcs there were, and with massive trolls and wargs besides, it would have been foolish to fight. The militia had melted away again into bush and hedge, and gone off home. 

It hadn't been so bad as all that. No one had actually died as of yet, because hobbits, being sensible folk, knew when to fight and when not to. Buckland mind, well, they had always been strange over in Buckland, and now they were all gone, disappeared who knew where on the very day of the invasion. Slipped away into the Old Forest, some said, although those some didn't know what they were speaking of if they thought any hobbit would go there. What tales were spoken of that place made it seem worse than even orcs! No, it was better to let them come, set up their camp – which had grown to a proper settlement now – and fill up their wagons when they came looking for food. It wasn't as though Hamfast begrudged feeding other creatures, although he would have liked to keep rather more of it for himself. These orcs always looked as though they could do with feeding up. 

He opened the door to rather what he was expecting, which was an orc. He had to look up at it, and it had to crouch a little so that it's eyes weren't higher than the lintel of the door, but it didn't try to barge past him into the hole, so thank the earth for small mercies. It was wrapped up warm in white furs, and with the cold wind that the open door was letting in, Hamfast was quite jealous of it. 

“You're Gamgee, yes?” the orc asked. 

“That I am sir,” Hamfast said, because the orcs always seemed to find being called sir amusing. 

“They say you have much knowledge of the growing of food.”

“Well, I'm more a gardener than a farmer,” Hamfast replied. “But I'm a dab hand with any kind of roots it's true, though quite what you'd be wanting with any of that I don't know.”

“Ha, well that's for us to know,” the orc said, grinning one of those nasty grins they had. “You'll be coming with me for a while. We've got need of some farmers.”

“In midwinter?” Hamfast asked, unable to stop himself. 

“Spring'll be soon enough,” the orc snapped. “And you can leave your family here – now don't pretend they're not hiding somewhere in that hole. We know that much about you. I'll give you ten minutes to pack and then you'll be coming out of there less you want me to come in.”

Hamfast nodded. He didn't see he had much other choice in the matter.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Strider makes arrangements, Bilbo finds out the truth about Angmar, a friend comes back, and a dark secret is uncovered. 
> 
> Apologies for the long wait - there were various factors causing that. This chapter is a little longer than usual to make up for that.

When Strider woke up he was pleasantly warm and surprisingly comfortable, and someone was lying next to him, back to back. For a moment he could not remember where he was or why this would be, but then the events of the day before came back to him quickly. He rose, moving slowly and carefully so as not to disturb the orc, and made his way towards the shaft of light that filtered in towards them from the cave-mouth. Outside the sky had cleared into a banner of pale blue, and snow lay heavy on the land below. From as high as this, it was almost possible to look out across the Gap of Rohan as far as the Misty Mountains themselves. The narrow path leading to the cave had been swept mostly clean of the new-fallen drifts by the wind, but Strider had no doubts that the way he had taken up into the mountains would be smothered in it too deep to easily traverse.

A soft sound behind him made him turn. Burguul was standing at his shoulder, looking out at the landscape with yellow eyes narrowed against the bright sun. Strider had not heard the orc moving before he got so close, and thought again how appropriate that name was.

“Plan to leave this morning?” Burguul asked.

“Not before we've talked more,” Strider replied. “I came here for a reason, after all, and we shall need to find some solution that will work for everyone.”

“Food first.”

Burguul turned back into the cave and called out in Black Speech. One by one, yawning and rubbing at their faces in a very human fashion, the little orclings came out into the main area. They shrank back a little when they saw him, but evidently spending the night in Strider's presence without any sign of aggression from him had made them less fearful. They grouped themselves in a little circle around the ashes of the fire-pit and looked up at the two of them expectantly.

Burguul produced more of the stolen pork from what proved to be leather bags at the side of the cave and squatted down by the orclings, beckoning for Strider to join them. He hesitated, not wanting to scare the children, but the awkwardness of standing alone by the cave-mouth made him relent soon enough. He sat down beside Burguul, content to be a silent observer. The young orcs tore into their breakfast with sharp white teeth, hunched over the meal protectively. They had a wariness that reminded him of animals, but as the thought came he reminded himself that they were fugitives more than anything, and that was explanation enough.

It was true that they were not as grubby and unkempt as might have been expected either, certainly not to the degree that all the orcs had been when he had last seen them. Strider had heard it was easy enough to fashion a comb from bone if you were careful and patient, and when there was wood to melt snow, a bath might be easy enough to come by as well. Strider did not know much of the normal habits of orcs to comment on their typical level of cleanliness. In Imladris he had bathed every day, as had every other person in Elrond's house, but the Dúnedain had never been particular and the Rohirrim were much the same. Any elf would have turned up their nose at the way he currently smelled. Before, he had believed that orcs were a particularly unclean folk, but soldiers and raiders were hardly good examples of hygiene in general no matter what race they hailed from. The evidence of his own eyes spoke differently, and if there was anything that Strider had learned since leaving Imladris, it was to trust that which he saw himself over the words of others.

One thing that his eyes could not make out however was the gender of any of the orclings – or of Burguul for that matter. It would stretch credulity to believe that all of them were male or all female, but he could see nothing to tell them apart. It was the same with dwarves though, he knew, who were all bearded and muscular, and he had been told that Men often found it difficult to tell with Elves when they had little experience of them.

He could not bring himself to ask though, at least not right now, for awkwardness prevented him. Perhaps time would give him more clues to go on.

“What solution then?” Burguul asked, interrupting his thoughts. “We have to eat.”

It was a problem, and not one with an easy fix, but Strider had had the night to think on it. “I accept that,” he said. “But it is too much for these people to bear all winter. Would it not be possible to move further west along the White Mountains, so that you could go to other villages, other farms, spread out the stealing as much as possible?”

Burguul thought about this. “No other clans raiding already? Where mountains are, orcs are.”

Strider shook his head. “I've heard nothing about other raids, no gossip or rumours. If there are other orc-clans, then they aren't going down into Rohan itself.”

“Then possible. Possible... though hard travel through deep snow. But can be done.”

“It would be a great favour to me,” Strider said earnestly. “I have a duty to these people.”

“But no duty to others we rob?” Burguul asked, although in a way that Strider thought was more joking than anything.

“I don't want to see anyone starving,” he replied. “The Jarl can send some aid to villages inside his domain, and so can the others in theirs, but no-one will be sending any help to you.”

Burguul nodded sharply. “Then it shall be done.”

\----

_Spring 2956_

There had been no ravens from Ered Luin for months. At first it had not been much cause for concern, as winter had come early that year, and the birds were not eager to fly over the Misty Mountains in such conditions, but with spring and snow-melt and still no news, worry was starting to spread. Bilbo hadn't really been thinking much of the lands to the west in recent times. His focus had been entirely on establishing the Dragon-courts throughout Dale, the more so since that unfortunate business with Dobromir and the salt mines. He had made a promise that he would improve Arda, make things equal and fair, and that meant putting a stop to the sort of crimes that the baron had planned. If it meant doing things he found unpleasant, then so be it. He had learned now that sometimes that was necessary.

Dale had been the first test of a system that eventually would reach over all the lands of Middle-Earth, and thus far it seemed to be going well. The barons had rapidly become willing to give up a little of their power after Bilbo had made Dobromir into an example of the fate resistance would bring, so that Bard was now a King again in more than name. Bard was sensible – he could be trusted in most cases and didn't need much supervision, although Bilbo had placed Dobromir there in his court to keep an eye on him all the same. Dale was quiet, with few tensions. The true test would come when lands beyond were made a part of the system.

It was perhaps those very lands that Bilbo ought have been paying more attention to, he realised now. Anything could be happening in Ered Luin, anything at all, and he had no eyes or ears anywhere near there that could have been reached through the Ring. Well, none but Angmar, and he was too far north even had Bilbo been willing to let him go free from his imprisonment.

Thorin was worried too. He had sent their own ravens west to investigate, but there had been no reply yet. It led to sleepless nights, and there was very little Bilbo could do about it. That grated. He wasn't used to helplessness.

News did come, eventually, in the form of a lonely dwarf limping into the city of Dale one morning with little luggage but the clothes on her back and the words of calamity in her mouth. After she had been given food and water Bilbo saw her in court the moment she was strong enough to speak. Thorin was not with him – in a stroke of ill luck he was away in the Iron Hills visiting King Dain on diplomatic matters.

“Invasion from Angmar,” Bilbo repeated, once the dwarf had finished telling her tidings, his thoughts whirring. How? Orcs didn't gather together like this without a leader, and any Chief-of-Chiefs who could command such loyalty would surely have been heard of in Gundabad. Yet those clans had been utterly silent, so much so that Bolg had sent reports with fears that they had all perished, perhaps in famine, infighting, or some other more mysterious reason. A great Chief wouldn't be quiet.

“They serve one called the Sword of Angmar,” she replied. “There was no way of resisting their army. They swept into Eriador and have settled all the lands of Men, and even the green land north-east of Ered Luin called the Shire.”

 _How dare they!_ the Ring spat. It writhed in anger. _We are their God now, and those lands are ours to say to take or burn or leave alone._

 _I'm not a God,_ Bilbo reminded it. The anger was rising in him too though. No enemy had come to the Shire since the Fell Winter, and no invader since the Battle of Greenfields. He might have left that home a long time ago, left his cosy hobbit hole under the hill – which no doubt had been taken over itself by Sackville-Bagginses by now – but he still loved the Shire. He had been born there, he had grown up there, he had friends and acquaintances and rivals and it was precious to him in a way that he couldn't really put into words. The thought of fields and houses burning, his kin slain... He could feel the fire those thoughts summoned raging in him, matched by the fury of the One.

“We won't let this go on,” Bilbo said, addressing the whole court now. “This war won't be allowed to continue. To protect innocent lives, and to protect our people, we will act.”

Magic came easily to him now; the fires of molten stone burned in the depths of his bones, moved sluggish though his veins. The merest thought brought the minds of the Nazgûl close to his own so that he could look out from behind their eyes, see what they saw and know what they knew. The Ring was a constant companion and only the more eager with every step taken upon the path that he had sworn to follow. With a word that was a fragment of a song, Bilbo issued a call to Angmar, to the Witch-King, along a link that time and distance was unable to weaken.

It was as though the link shivered. Like a plucked harp-string badly tuned the note returned discordant. Bilbo saw flashes of a dark, dank tomb, of snow-capped hills, of a citadel standing tall, grim and forbidding, and then with the force of a taut rope snapping, the spell did as it was supposed to do, and the shade of the Witch-King appeared in the hall before him.

There were cries of surprise and anger from the court – but not many, for they were used to Bilbo's ways by now. The Nazgûl stood proud and did not bow, although the substance of him wavered in even the steady glow of the lamps. Without cape or other garb he was simply shadows and corpse-light, only half-seen.

“Long has it been since you last ordered my obedience,” Angmar said, with venom. “One must wonder what new calamity has befallen you that is beyond your meagre powers.”

“I have need of eyes in Eriador,” Bilbo replied. “And since you can be summoned from or banished to your grave with great speed, you are the closest one that I can send.”

“Then you wish for me to walk forth merely as your Palantir.”

 _I like not the feel of him now,_ the Ring whispered. _I sense dishonesty upon him, disobedience, malevolence._

 _What could he have done from a crypt?_ Bilbo asked. _Of course he hates me; it would take far longer for his pride to be worn down than a few decades._ That much had become clear to him as he became more familiar with the natures of the Nine.

“Have your powers allowed you to sense any of what happens in the lands beyond your grave?” Bilbo asked. The Ring, after all, was rarely wrong.

Angmar laughed. It was a high and unpleasant sound that seemed to rip the air into tattered scraps. “Perhaps I had meant to keep it from you a while longer, ignorant fool that you are, but it will make no difference to tell you the truth now. War and conquest have come to Eriador, and it is at my hand. Yes, mine!”

At first he did not believe it. But... false though Angmar had been in the past, the powers that bound him meant that he could not tell an outright lie – although it did not seem possible, it must be true. Even the Ring seemed as shocked as he did.

“How?!” Bilbo demanded, his fingers clenching on the arms of his seat, the talons of his armour digging into the stone. In his anger a great glut of words stood poised to spill out of him, but in their urgency they choked each other, stopped up his throat and made it hard even to speak.

“I will spare you the details of magic you do not have the knowledge to comprehend,” Angmar said scornfully. “I have worked my will through the body of one who freely gave it up to me so that I might see my Kingdom rebuilt in the name of my _true_ master. I have been merciful thus far, when I might have slaughtered your weak, mewling kin in their burrows, but if you order me to stop, to leave my host, then I have arranged that that _will_ change.”

 _“You dare!”_ It was the Ring speaking though him as much as the words were his own; in fury they were of one mind.

“Let me reign, or let halfling blood soak the green hills of your Shire,” Angmar said, his voice just as cold and terrible.

If Bilbo wished it the Ring would incinerate this wraith that its own power held to the plane of Arda, immolate him as he should have been immolated upon the pyre that would have marked his death in Númenór millennia ago. He should have done it long before, despite the warnings from the other Nazgûl about what it might do to them. But now this threat made it impossible – Angmar's death would come at the cost of thousands of lives, and that was a bargain that Bilbo would never make.

 _He is a traitor!_ the Ring spat in the back of his mind.

 _We will find another way,_ Bilbo replied, hoping that he was not fooling himself in that.

 _“Be gone from my sight,”_ the One Ring commanded through him, and wrenched the Witch-King back whence he came. The shade evaporated, wreathed by the echoes of fell laughter. In its wake it left silence.

In that moment, he missed Thorin more than he could say.

But he could not think of his husband's absence right now. He might not be able to kill Angmar, but neither would he let this lie. It would be war, and he would summon Gundabad and the Mountain Clans to march with them. They would drive out Angmar's army, protect the people under their sway, and only when they were safe, only then would he tear apart the wraith who had dared to threaten the Shire.

\----

_Autumn 2956_

Strider had perhaps been showing more trust than most would have said was wise in leaving Burguul and his charges to keep up their promise or not as they willed it, but there had been no more thefts in those villages after he returned to Cenric's court, and wherever the orcs had moved on to, it was outside of Cenric's domain and they received no word of it. The winter passed thereafter with little more to be said about it, and the year turned into the next with news of the ongoing troubles in Eriador.

Despite his hopes, no-one had come asking for help for the Dúnedain. The Rohirrim murmured and gossiped, and said that if something were not done perhaps their lands would be next, after the north-lands were fallen entire, but talk was only that, and did not seem likely to lead to action of any sort. Cenric trained his riders a little harder, perhaps, and eyes looked oft east towards Edoras as though expecting a messenger, but no call to war came.

Strider was out riding patrols in the north-western part of Cenric's lands that morning, luxuriating in the sun and the swift breeze in his face, the smell of last night's rain still on the air as thin mud baked dry in the growing heat of the day. Upon these rocky plains the land could be seen for miles around, and his keen eyes picked out flocks of sheep and goats, a small herd of half-wild Rohirric horses, a village nestled upon a low hill – nothing that might give him cause for concern. He had made a looping path north then west then south, and was returning to the hold upon a little-used track that mostly saw the hooves of shepherds' droves.

As he turned a corner of the track, he saw a figure sitting atop an outcrop of rock, overdressed for the weather in furs. In fact, Strider thought, heart sinking, it looked altogether too familiar. He drew his gelding up by the rocks and glared at the figure, which looked back at him with an amused expression.

“What are you doing here?” Strider said in low, urgent tones, although truthfully there was no-one else around to hear them. “This isn't safe!”

“The light-cursed sun isn't pleasant, give you that,” Burguul said. The orc had left no patch of skin uncovered, and must have been stifled with heat.

“If someone saw you...”

“I'm not so easy to see when I don't want to be,” Burguul replied.

Strider hesitated. “Why are you here?” he asked. “It must be something important, to take the risk, even if you believe that risk to be small.”

Burguul made a thoughtful noise. “Something you said before...” The orc rose and jumped down off the rock, startling his mount and making it shy back a little. Strider soothed it with a quiet word and soft pats on the neck. “Listen,” Burguul continued, “found another tribe further east in the mountains. They let us join them, so no need worry about the little'uns. Told tales though same as what you said; wagons of food coming to Edoras from Jarls, then heading north with different drivers and many guards.”

“Towards Isengard?”

“Where else?”

“Then you're going north to find the truth of what is going on.”

Burguul nodded. “Would like you with me. Easier to travel in the company of a Man.”

Strider hesitated. “I am expected back at the Jarl's court,” he said. “But after I make my report... I am trusted there, and if I were to ask for leave to go I think it would be granted.”

“But will you do so?”

“Yes.” Strider thought he had already known the answer to that question the moment he had divined the orc's purpose. He too was curious – and if Curunír was doing something terrible, then he would have to find some way to get the word out to someone who could do something about it. “I will go north to Isenguard with you.”

\----

Cenric gave him permission to leave court even more easily than Strider had expected. Perhaps he too wanted to know the truth, to know why the Rohirrim sent their food to the King and suffered through the winter for it. Curunír was a powerful ally to Rohan, guardian of their northern borders from Dunlendings and orc-tribes, but the Rohirrim were not entirely trustful of magic and its wielders. Strider did not blame them for disliking the White Wizard; he more than most knew the Istari was not to be trusted.

It was also a surprise to him how easy he found it to travel with Burguul. The orc had been voluble enough during their last meeting, but Stider found them quieter out here in a way which matched his own taciturn nature. They walked during the day, which perhaps had something to do with it. He had asked if this would have any ill effects, but Burguul replied that the furs were protection enough, and it was less suspicious than travelling by night.

They talked most when the sun sank below the horizon and they made camp. Burguul was possessed of a great curiosity about the ways of other folk, and so Strider found himself telling tales of history to explain why Men belonged to such-and-such a nation and people, why their Kings were their Kings, why there had been wars in the past at such a time over such a thing. Nor was Burguul silent in giving the orcish opinion, and thus Strider learned how it was the strongest of their number who became the new chieftain, whether the old one had died or not, and that they held certain things such as metals or gems as sacred to their own gods – gods that stood quite apart from anything he had ever thought of as holy.

It had been easy to forget why Burguul's people were hated. Perhaps as individuals they were pleasant and peaceable enough, but for all that they had been created by Darkness itself, creatures of Morgoth, to carry out his bidding and fight his wars. They worshipped Dragons and Balrogs, they bowed to Sauron – the 'Great Eye'. If evil called, there they would be, eager to do its bidding.

But there was no force of true evil in the world now to call them – or there had not been, not for almost a thousand years. It was only in Strider's own lifetime that this trouble had come down from the north into Eriador, and who was to say the cause of that? Perhaps as in the way of orcs Burguul had told him, those tribes that had always haunted the further, wilder reaches of the lands had been brought together by some Chief-of-Chiefs, and that was not evidence of the kind of evil that orcs might call a god.

No, Sauron was gone, the Nazgûl had been banished to tombs long ago, the last true fire drake lay in some mountain far away east and north, and the Balrogs had been dead so long they were more myth than truth. Let Burguul's folk worship what they wanted – their gods had no power in this world.

\----

Isengard did not lie so many leagues hence, even travelling on foot. Burguul and Strider made good time. On occasion they were lucky enough to see game near the road, at others Strider went into the villages and farmsteads they passed to buy supplies. Few others were going north, and they did not meet many on the road. Strider wondered if he should find this strange, but then Isengard was not a place for common folk – a term in this instance meaning near everyone who was not of the Istari or the White Council – nor did it need to rely upon trade. One wizard and whatever servants he might choose to employ did not take much feeding.

As they came closer to the foothills of the Misty Mountains however, he began to feel more and more uneasy. They had reached land that was less open where the trees grew plentiful; they became copses, then woods, then true forests. Were the pair of them to hew more east than west in their passage they would come to Fangorn, of which the Elves in Imladris spoke of in hushed respectful whispers. It was the oldest and wildest forest yet left in Middle-Earth. In other circumstances Strider might have been glad to slow their journey to see it, but the task they were now bent upon was more important than whim.

A strange fell feeling lay upon the land here. They saw Men no longer, only houses pulled down or burnt where villages had once been, yet without bones of person or animal to be found upon the scene. Burguul would wrinkle their nose and scent the air, saying only that there was some smell here that it seemed ought be known, save for the reek of smoke.

The pair of them started to take more care then. They left the road and took to the woods. Strider's Dúnedain skills stood him in good stead in moving silently, and Burguul was as soft-footed as an Elf. Yet it seemed there was little to give away their presence – there was no birdsong, and not once did they see or hear trace of any beast. It sat very uneasy.

They came then to a place where Strider began to be able to smell the scent of wood-fires upon the breeze. There was a rise ahead from which he thought they might get a good view of the valley of Isengard, so keeping low they made their careful way up it to a place where they could worm their way between rocks so as to see but not be seen. Yet despite their caution Strider could not hold the gasp from his throat when he beheld what lay before him.

He had heard Elrond comment before on the glory of Isengard's gardens, but no trace of them remained. For miles around the encircling outer wall the forests were gone, even the stumps uprooted from the earth, leaving only upturned heaps of soil scattering what had once been the undergrowth below the sheltering boughs. Black smoke rose up from inside Isengard, and from what could be seen of the grounds there was little left there either besides churned mud and trampled grass.

“This all new?” Burguul whispered to him from where they were pressed close to Strider's side.

“Yes,” he replied. “But I cannot see why, nor where that smoke comes from. What great fires are burning, and for what purpose?”

“None good,” the orc said, with teeth bared.

“There doesn't seem to be any way of getting close without being spotted,” Strider said, thinking aloud. “There's no cover, at least not if we were to approach from this direction. Perhaps if we circled round, closer to the mountains...”

“There's a path,” Burguul said, “up to that dam.” Strider's gaze swept the rocky slopes of the foothills of Methedras, but he could see neither. “There.” The orc pointed, and at last he perceived the glint of sunlight off metal.

“Your eyes are keener than mine.”

“ _Golog_ -sight,” the orc replied. “May find out more going that way.”

Strider nodded. It seemed like the best chance they would get.

It took most of the day to make their way west then north again, skirting the edge of the open space where the forest had once been. They camped the night in a shallow cave, taking watch in shifts, before setting off on a hard climb early the next morning. There was no clear way up than that which they made themselves, but at least the slope was broken and the rocks not sheer. As they approached the path leading towards the dam, they had a better view of what lay inside the walls of Isengard below.

There were great cracks and caverns in the earth made visible, lit from within by the glow of constant, fierce fires, surrounded by complicated wooden platforms and rigging with purposes unclear. Whether these ravines had always been present or were new mine-delvings or quarries Strider had no clue, but either way the movement of ropes and small figures busting up and down paths and ladders spoke of a busy industry quite at odds with what he had been told of this place.

“Men and orcs,” Burguul said, sounding unhappy.

“So there are orcs here,” Strider replied. “the same ones that were taken on these raids?”

Burguul shook their head. “Too old. Can't tell more from up here.”

“We have to go down then,” Strider said. “Inside. We have to find someone to talk to.” They could not be expecting anyone to come here who did not belong, and with the size of what seemed to be happening he doubted two unfamiliar faces would cause that much concern.

“Not a good plan,” Burguul told him, but shrugged all the same. “Only plan though.”

They made their way down the path towards the northern gate of Isengard. They could see from a distance that it stood open, although there were guards on the walls. Parties of men and orcs with wood-cutting saws and axes accompanied by carts drawn by sturdy placid ponies left periodically, going away east and west. Burguul and Strider stopped a little way off where they could still hide amongst the twists and turns of the rocks. The Men were Dunlendings, as Strider had suspected, with bushy tangled hair and beards, clothing made of furs and leather, faces daubed with blue or white paint. The orcs wore such paint too, though mostly white and red, and tended to be clad in at least some form of armour or mail no matter how crude. Neither race seemed to think anything of the company they kept, speaking to each other as they would any other person. There seemed little sign of strife.

“Southern clans,” Burguul said next to him. “Know the markings.”

“South of the White Mountains?”

“No. From Mordor.”

Strider felt his skin prickle as his stomach gave a lurch within him. Mordor. It had been clear that Curunír was doing something ill, but to have orcs from Mordor under his command... he had not even suspected that that fell land might be involved somehow.

“I'm not sure I can pass for a Dunlending,” he said, thinking hard.

“Smell like one,” Burguul said, tipping their head back in the way they had taught Strider was an orcish smile. “All needed is more mud.”

The trickling remnants of the Isen river flowed past at the bottom of a gully nearby. Scrabbling down the side, Strider quickly found a place where he could crouch and dip his head into the water to wet his hair before scrubbing a handful of dirt into it, rolling the strands between his palms to tangle them further. He had brought no razor with him, but his bloodline meant he was still not yet old enough for his beard to grow in well, and what there was was straggled and patchy. Oft times others had difficulty placing his age, and he thought he might pass himself off as a Dunlending youth. It would explain his lack of markings, which he understood were a marker of manhood amongst that people.

By the time he had finished, Burguul had returned from locating some manner of pale clay, which looked white enough against the dark grey of the orc's skin. They looked him up and down and grunted in approval. “It'll do.”

They made their way to the gate, Strider attempting to dredge up every scrap of memory he could think of relating to the Dunlending tribes. His tutors had not thought them of much importance, but equally they had believed in being thorough. “Ho there!” he cried, as they approached.

“What do you want?” one of the guards cried out from atop the wall. “Left your axe behind, boy?”

“Something like that!” Strider replied, thanking good fortune. It seemed that the men had not been paying particular attention to exactly who was leaving that morning.

“Be quick about it then or I'll not stay my tongue to save you a whipping!”

Strider hurried inside with Burguul quick on his heels. He had no particular idea where they ought to go, but there was a set of buildings not far off which had the look of a lumber-yard, and so set off in that direction. There were no further cries from the guards, so he supposed he must have chosen correctly.

“Now what?” he whispered to Burguul.

“The pits,” the orc replied. “Don't put secrets out in the open.”

By the time they reached the lumber-yard, the guards were no longer watching. Here there were great stacks of bare trunks waiting to be split, piles of planks, baskets stacked high with wood-chips, bundles of branches stripped of their leaves. Beyond, they could see one of the ravines, and the path that led down into it. The smell of wood-fires was even stronger here, and now they could see why; scores of charcoal kilns were scattered around the outskirts of the yard, filling the air with smoke. Burguul tapped Strider's arm lightly to get his attention and indicated one of the sheds piled with the product of those kilns. There were several baskets lying beside it, insides black with dust.

“Make ourselves useful,” Strider said, getting the point.

The baskets were huge, carried with a strap around the forehead, but charcoal was light. Still, it made the way down into the ravine awkward, and unused to the method, Strider soon found his neck beginning to ache. The air grew ever more close as they descended, hot and stifling. He did his best to look around. There were forges down here, the ring of hammers on metal, iron ore glowing in massive crucibles of dwarvish style that he had only seen before as drawings in books. It was less busy down here than he had first thought, and they soon found a place to drop off their burdens and slip away into the shadows.

“Blade and armour,” Burguul said, snarling. “The wizard calls for war, and these _uruk_ obey. The Eye may command, but a wizard is a poor God to follow.”

“What has Sauron got to do with it?” Strider asked, his heart sinking even lower, if that was possible. “He has been gone for thousands of years!”

“Mordor _uruks_ wouldn't be here otherwise. Núrn bows to none but the Eye. No wizard-scum commands the _uruk_.”

“If Sauron was back surely we would know about it!”

“Rumours in White Mountain-Clans. Gondor knows. Yet Rohan not. By whose hand?”

“Curunír.” That made too much sense. It was clear the wizard held too much influence over King Thengel, commanding this tax of food, and who knew what else. Rumours and gossip were not easy to suppress, particularly where fear was involved, but it could be done.

Burguul nodded. “Building an army. But can't all come through the Brown Lands from the Gates.”

“The captured orcs... They're what, breeding stock?”

Burguul looked conflicted. “Killed to take them. But if the Eye commanded, the _uruk_ would go. So why?”

“Perhaps they wouldn't just take it on trust who the orders came from?” Strider suggested. “It seems likely that Dunlendings would have been those sent, not other orcs. Although quite how they knew which ones were the women...”

“What has that to do with breeding?” Burguul asked, looking confused. Strider looked back with a similar expression.

“Well... You know about breeding surely?”

“ _Uruk_ don't breed like Men,” Burguul said slowly, as though explaining something to a child. “All _uruks_ can carry young, all _uruks_ can sire them.”

Strider attempted to fit his mind around this. It wasn't easy. Already his thoughts were filling up with what seemed like a hundred questions, and these were hardly the circumstances for them. “Oh,” was eventually all that came out of his mouth.

“No, didn't kill men, killed older ones that would put up fight.” The orc snarled. “Took younglings. Took me. Hah! Try now, _ragur snagaz_!”

That was enough to distract his thoughts along another path. Thinking now of what fate might have befallen Burguul had he not by chance come across that raiding party of Dunlendings made Strider shudder. He was young, true, but what he had not known of the world in Imladris he had learned working as a sell-sword on the roads. He understood that ugly things happened. He understood what those ugly things were. And for all that Burguul had said orcs would do whatever the Eye commanded, there was willing and there was duress, and Strider knew well enough which was which.

They had been making their way through a twisted maze of corridors as they spoke, keeping their voices to low whispers. The sound of the forges had long since faded, but now the pathway seemed to open out again ahead of them. They came out into another large chamber open to the sky far above. The ground seemed to be covered in a layer of thick, lumpy mud, walkways built above for ease of passage. Burguul made an expression of disgust.

“Reeks of magic,” the orc said. “Wizard-song.”

Strider forced his dark and whirling thoughts away from the forefront of his mind. “What do you mean?”

Instead of answering, Burguul leapt the short distance down into the mud and began to paw at one of the strange lumps, eyes narrowed and nostrils flaring. Strider made his way down to join the orc rather more carefully. He was already covered in rather more mud that he would really like. There seemed to be something under the mud. Something strangely membranous and elastic, like the thin translucent layer that coated the inside of an egg made large.

Suddenly Burguul swore loudly in Westron, then continued in the Black Speech. “ _Dauban dyri! Kaz kurvan prasoganug trupri!_ (Torture those animals! Cows fuck their rotting corpses!)”

“What is it?” he asked, alarmed.

“The wizard dares! Melkor himself crafted us and he _dares_!” The orc continued to snarl in the Black Tongue, any whatever was being said Strider was sure it was not pleasant. He pushed closer, trying to see what had sparked such anger.

There was... an orc, underneath the mud, although it did not look like any orc he had ever seen before. For one thing it was too tall, too brawny, despite that he knew enough of orcs now to see that it was yet young. It could have been dead, save that from time to time it twitched as though sleeping.

Quite what Curunír had done to create this creature Strider did not know, but looking upon the size of the chamber and the great number of mounds and heaps which lay within it, it was clear that here was their army, slumbering like corpses waiting to be reborn from their own graves.

He would have to tell someone. He understood that clearly in that moment. This could not be allowed to go on, for the safety of all Arda. They had to leave, now, and send a message with as great a speed as possible to the closest person who could do anything about it – Lady Galadriel, Queen of the Golden Wood.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good Guy Strider learns all the things, Kulkodar marches to war, and Angmar has a No Good Very Bad Day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know everyone wants to see more Thorin/Bilbo in this, but I'm not actually very good at writing romance. I'll try and fit a bit more in in later chapters when things are a little less politically hectic for them both. 
> 
>  
> 
> Constructive criticism always appreciated.

Strider had been a bit worried about the ease with which they would be able to make their escape from Isengard, but in the end it turned out to be a simple matter. He and Burguul made their way back up through the network of tunnels and reached the surface near the point that they had entered. The air was thick with the haze of heat and smoke, and the area was almost empty. Those few men or orcs that passed them on various errands glanced at them and looked away again without a second thought. Returning to the lumber-yard, they found spare axes of size and heft for cutting wood and left by the gate that they had entered, to accompanying sneers from the guard that he looked forward to seeing Strider's back lashed to ribbons the next day for his tardiness. 

They went east then, towards Fangorn. It was the direction that any watchers would be expecting them to go, but it was also the fastest route towards someone who could actually do anything about all this. 

“You have a plan,” Burguul said, as soon as they were out of earshot of the walls. 

Strider nodded. “It will not be the safest for either of us. But it is the best chance that we have of seeing some justice for what Curunír has done.”

“Tell me.”

“Did your tribe ever tell stories about Lothlórien?” Strider asked. 

“One of the elf-forests,” Burguul replied. “Go near and die. But a good thought. Elves like Wizards, much as _golog_ like anything save themselves and trees, but they hate _uruk_ the most of all things. Hate always triumphs with them. Still, the Istari is powerful.”

“Where... I grew up,” Strider said, hesitant. If he named Imladris... what stories might Burguul have heard of Elrond? Of the Dúnedain? Burguul was very understanding – almost fatalistic in a bitter kind of way about the way orcs were hated by the other races of Middle-Earth – but Strider thought the look he would be given would be bad enough. Besides, he wanted so much to leave that life behind him, even if he wasn't as successful at doing so in his mind as he was in his outer life. “They told many tales of Lady Galadriel, who rules Lothlórien. She is ancient and powerful, and if anyone is a match for Curunír, she is.”

“Hope so.”

They walked on in silence for a while longer. The fringes of Fangorn loomed ahead, mounting the gentle slope that led up in valleys and rills eventually to the mountains themselves. Strider led them southwards a little, wanting to avoid any of the logging parties that were surely out here somewhere. 

“There are a few questions I should like to ask,” he said eventually. The revelations of the morning had driven them momentarily out of his head, but now they were returning with a burning curiosity. 

“Ask,” Burguul replied. 

“Well.” It was an awkward topic, but Strider persevered. “You said that orcs don't breed like Men do. But you still have the concept of men and women? Or at least I have heard you make reference to 'he' and 'she' when talking about the ways of your people...”

“Only because Westron's too limited. But then, the clans have been using it along with the Speech for too long, and it's gotten into our heads.” Burguul tapped their claws against the dull metal of the axe they were carrying. “Been thinking about how to explain for a while, but... not so easy. Have to go back to the beginning, maybe.”

“I'll do my best to understand.”

“So back when the world was sung,” Burguul began, “the First Singer made _golog-hai_ and _tarks_ , _golog_ to sing his praises and order the world like he wanted, and _tarks_ to be their slaves.”

“That's not how it happened,” Strider objected, the words coming out from a place of instinct rather than concious thought. Burguul scowled at him. 

“You don't know how it happened any more than we do. S'why it's called myth. But I thought you were going to listen.”

“I apologise,” Strider said, feeling his face flush hot. After everything, _this_ was what he felt he had to speak up about? 

“Anyway, Melkor saw that First Singer was making a world cold and with no change. So he started to sing too, and he sung a world with fire in it, not just ice, and once Arda was born from that singing he made sure that the Misled Gods couldn't undo what he'd done. Then he sat down in a secret place to watch what came next. He thought his words might be enough to free the First's Children, but they weren't. When woken up they were _awake_ but not _alive._ Sat by pools playing with water, picking fruit off trees, but no building, crafting, cunning. So Melkor went to them and put fire in head and heart.”

Burguul paused. “See by your face you're not happy,” the orc said. 

“The way I have heard this tale told was a very great deal different.”

“ _Golog_ -tales,” Burguul said, with that grin that was not a grin. Showing teeth. “But they weren't _golog_ then. Weren't anything then. So, Melkor thought that'd be enough. But forgot what fools the Misled Gods are. The Hunter came, as he'd been coming for years and years, making his sport. Saw a new thing not known, and thought 'what fun'! Because that's not how the song had shown the Children, and he'd forgotten that fire changes, and that fire was in the song now.”

“I had thought...” Strider was feeling very uneasy. He had known in some way that of course the orcs would tell their own legends about the beginning of the world and about Morgoth and Sauron, but he hadn't before considered to the full how those tales would not be the same as those he knew. “It was told to me that Quendi went missing, but that it was the hand of Morgo... of Melkor at work.”

“Tell the truth and admit their Gods murdered them? Ha. The Hunter worked it out in the end, or else another one told him when they saw what trophies he'd brought back to decorate his hall. Very fond of them after that; much to make up for. Many lies saying this was their first meeting, no, never come this way before. Just another lesson for Melkor. Some of the First's Children were clever enough to see the truth and go to him, asking help. And from them he made _us_ , the _uruk_. He made us to be strong, to survive where nothing else would. If we were killed, we would build our numbers again. And that's the answer to part of your question. That's why each of us can bear young.”

Considered that way, it did indeed make sense. Strider had always known that the orcs were a race created by Morgoth, whether for war as he had been taught, or at their own asking, as they themselves clearly believed. What better for a soldier-race to be equally useful marching as warriors, or breeding up the next army when the first was inevitably depleted? Whatever the truth of those first Quendi, dupes or honest converts, whatever had been done to them at the time, their descendants found themselves to be well-made. 

“Then if you were purposefully crafted,” Strider said, “is that why you found what Curunír was doing as terrible as you did?”

Burguul nodded. “One of the Misled Gods has no right to meddle,” the orc snarled. 

“Anyway you still haven't exactly answered all of my question,” Strider said hastily, before they could begin another long diatribe in Black Speech. 

“Yes, well. So the first _uruk_ went from being all different to all the same. But still _liked_ to do different things. Hunters, fishers, caretakers, weavers, all that. So when Melkor made Black Speech for us, we got words for what we _did,_ not for what's between our legs. Trouble is, _golog_ -tongues and your _tark_ Westron have only those two words, and most of us speak Westron a lot, so we have to figure out which to use. Each clan does it different, from what I know, 'cos it's based off watching _tarks_ , and _tark_ nations aren't alike either.”

“That does make things clearer.” Which was true, even if it left him feeling uneasy.

“Some parts you could have done without,” Burguul said, looking amused. 

“Perhaps, but I thank you for the telling anyway. It is better to know than to not. So what words should I use for you then?” Strider asked. 

The orc thought about this for some time. “Don't know what my clan would have used,” they explained. “if we had spoken Westron. It's one that changes a lot between clans. Spell-singer, story-teller... Istari all look male, but there's as many _golog_ -women who do either – like this one we're going to send a message to. Use what you like, I don't know.”

“Then... tell me when you do know.” Strider could avoid the issue for now if that made his friend more comfortable. 

They continued to walk for some time in silence before another thought occurred to him. 

“If the Quendi were like that when they awoke, then what about Men?”

“Tales say less about them. Think Melkor didn't have to do much, if anything at all. But would be strange for First Singer to make slaves smart. So who knows?”

“I don't suppose we shall ever know the full truth,” Strider said diplomatically. 

“Could find a God and ask them,” Burguul replied, with a rough laugh. “But one thing Gods have in common with people – self-interest. No. Only have what we choose to believe, and what that says 'bout us and others.”

\----

After they had left the land around Isengard, Strider guided them gradually more and more to the north along the eaves of Fangorn. They were forced to swim the Entwash, which even at the edge of the forest was already wide and deep, although at least not fast-flowing. There were no fords or bridges here for lack of any who would need them. They took the afternoon of that day to dry their clothes off in the sun, stripping down to their underclothes and lounging in the pleasant warmth of early autumn – or at least Strider did. Burguul of course could not bear so much direct sunlight and took shelter in the shade of the trees, coating their skin in river-mud for protection. The orc had many scars despite being still young, Strider noted, but from what he had been told of orc-clans casual violence was a way of life with them, even in childhood. 

He had thought somewhat on the orcish version of the tale he had been told so often. It had put this doubt in him, not that what Burguul had said was entirely true, although certainly the orc _believed_ it was, it was not something his kin had made up merely to make themselves feel better. No, rather the doubt was that perhaps the _Ainulindalë_ and _Valaquenta_ were not the whole truth. Tales changed in the telling, and even if that knowledge had been passed down from the Valar themselves, might it not have been altered...? Well, if it had been, then the chance of such was much greater with the oral tradition of the orcs. No, as he had told his friend, the real truth was unknowable. He would not forsake Eru Illuvatar over this, nor think any differently of Morgoth. Whatever was in the past, one only had to look upon the acts of his servant Sauron – that evil spoke well enough of their motivations.

He put it out of his mind for another time. Their mission of the moment was of more importance.

The Entwash was not the only river that lay in their path. But there was no other way to reach Lothlórien, so they were left little choice but to repeat their actions as before when they came to the Limlight, cold and swift. Then it was naught but clear and empty wilderness all the way. 

When at last they came to see the forest ahead of them, Burguul asked, “And what d'you plan now we're here? Walk up and ask all nice to see this _golog-_ lady?”

Strider shook his head. “Neither of us would fare well going into those woods,” he replied. “But see how there are other stands of trees away from the forest itself? We shall gather wood and build a signal-fire, and leave our news in a letter beside it. When the guardians of Lothlórien come out to investigate, then they shall see it, and by what I write I am sure they will take it to Lady Galadriel.”

“By which point we shall have run far away,” Burguul said. “Good, good. Where then, have you thought?”

“I have thought only as far as this point,” Strider admitted. “I do not think I can return to Rohan just yet. It is the first place I should be looked for.”

“Why're you so sure they'll come after you?” the orc asked. “What've you done to be hunted?”

“If I tell you, you cannot let anyone else know,” Strider said, finding himself torn. Every instinct made him want to keep this secret, but he had come to know Burguul so well that to do so would feel like a kind of betrayal. Besides, he need not mention Imladris. Would the mere fact of his Nùmenorian blood mean very much to an orc? Gondor was not their nation, and likely it suited them very well that that land remained without a King. 

“If it's a blood-oath you need, I'll make it,” Burguul told him. 

“I am of the line of Isildur, a direct descendant of the Northern Kings,” Strider admitted, making his decision. “And you need not spill blood; I trust your word.”

“No northern Kings anymore,” Burguul pointed out. “So why'd the _golog_ want you? They want to bring that Kingdom back?”

“No. They want to make me King of Gondor.”

The orc made an expression of disgust. “ _Why?_ Don't see how they profit from it.”

“I do not know either,” Strider admitted. “Except perhaps to act as their pawn. But what orders they would give me I do not know. It is not the way of the elves to involve themselves in the doings of the Kingdoms of Men.”

“So, can't go to Rohan, can't go to Gondor, can't go back to the North-lands... What about the mountains?”

“You want to trek all the way back to the White Mountains?”

“No, _these_ mountains.” The orc gestured to the steep, proud slopes of Caradhras away to the north-west. “Plenty orc-clans around, and if I vouch for you, they'll make little fuss about you being a _tark._ You're the right kind of _tark_.”

“Perhaps for a little while,” Strider said. “Just until they are likely to have given up hope that I remain in Rohan.”

“For as long as you like,” Burguul replied. “Now let's get this fire started.”

\----

In the end it had been more efficient to send dragons than ravens. Bilbo would not have asked it of them, but he had not needed to. At the request of Fíli and Kíli they had held council and made the decision to lend their aid, in the name of the alliance that now stood between dwarf and dragon, between fire and metal and stone. So as spring had waned they had flown to bring the summons for war; Raumo to Gundabad, Calarus to Moria, and thence to go along the length of the Misty Mountains, and Heren to the Grey Mountains, all sure in their Godhood of being promptly obeyed. Ondolissë had borne Fíli on her back to Dain in the Iron Hills, whilst Kíli and Ancalagon had made for the northern parts of Ered Luin, Glaurung and Thorin to those further south. Through the land of Dale the word was also spread, for Bard had needed little more than the tale told to him to agree that their cause was just. 

Between the last three young dragons – for Smaug had no intentions of ever leaving the mountain – there had been some argument about where else they might go to find further aid, and Turcosú had suggested that although the loyalty of these orcs of the north would be to their first god Mairon, if she and the others were to go forth amongst them, at least some might be persuaded to alter their allegiances. Bilbo had already spoken to Glaurung and Khamûl about this possibility before any of the dragons had left. The risks of alerting Angmar to what they were doing were too high. This war would begin with one great strike to free the Shire, and only then could the real fight begin. But that strike, Turcosú, Nappa and Angatúrë would play their part in.

It had been a long and difficult wait as summer passed, as every day the musters of Dale reached the city to join the swelling army and Erebor spent its new-minted coin to keep them fed. Bilbo had passed much of his time in his and Thorin's chambers with his senses stretched out through the Ring, watching and speaking with the dragons and the Nine in council of war. 

Now autumn had come, and with it the time for them to march. The army of the orcs was waiting to join them at Gundabad, from where they would sweep into Angmar from the east, whilst the dwarves of Ered Luin took their assembled force into the Shire and kept its people safe with draconic aid from the vengeance that would undoubtedly come. 

Now that the moment was here, Bilbo found himself obscurely reluctant to leave Erebor. It was not as though the kingdom could not look after itself for a few months, not with Balin remaining to take care of it. The old dwarf was no longer quite hale enough for a long campaign, but his wits and wisdom were as sharp as ever they were. No, his husband's birthright would be safe without him. These little creeping doubts were baseless, truly. The army of Dale and Erebor was waiting, and he was needed at its head. 

\----

_Late Autumn 2956_

For a year now Hamfast Gamgee had been labouring in the fields of Buckland with orcs and hobbits from all across the Shire. The work was hard, but fulfilling for all that. Nurturing the crops your own hand had planted always was, and the only thing better was eating them after the harvest. When Kolb had first dragged him from his cosy hole he had been terrified of what would happen, both to himself and to his family, but it seemed that the orc could be trusted to keep a promise. Hamfast had done as he was asked, and nothing bad had happened yet. 

It was nice to have his opinions respected as well. When it came to growing things, even Kolb deferred to him. If he ignored certain parts about his situation – namely that he was far away from Belle and it didn't look as though he would be allowed to see her any time soon – he could almost pretend to himself that he was some gentleman farmer or landowner like that departed Mr Baggins who had once lived in the big hole at the top of the hill before he ran off on an Adventure and got himself killed. 

When Kolb had first brought him to Buckland it had been empty and abandoned in a way that had made the hairs on Hamfast's feet stand on end. All the Bucklanders had simply disappeared. Thrown down their tools in the fields, ransacked the burrows for provisions and precious keepsakes, and simply gone. Apart from the orcs, there hadn't been a body to be seen. Of course, they had brought hobbits in now from all over to work in the fields alongside them, but there were still so many holes where the windows gaped black and empty, unnatural-like. 

The harvest had come and gone now, and Hamfast had even managed to persuade Kolb to let them celebrate it properly with a festival, although not the best of ones, with a lot less food and cheer than it rightly deserved. But orcs didn't seem to appreciate food properly, and although they could be cheery enough in their way, their songs and their liquor were neither appropriate for civilised company. Still, there was hay in the stacks and grain in the granaries, the trees had been picked clean, and larders and pantries were well-stocked for the winter. Hamfast's lessons had been well received and both orcs and hobbits had worked together well over the summer and autumn. Perhaps he would be able to go home at least for the Winter Solstice... 

There was some kind of commotion coming from the village. The orcs had taken over the largest inn for themselves as a kind of local headquarters, although most of them stayed with groups of hobbits at each of the farms hereabouts. But with the harvest in, there was not as much to do – although it turned out to be mostly the hobbits doing what there was of it, whilst the orcs lazed about indoors, or congregated to drink amongst their own kind. But the shouting Hamfast could now hear floating on the breeze was angry rather than boisterous, and there was as much clanging as though someone had fired up the blacksmith's forge. 

He broke into a run. Not that he knew quite what he'd do when he got there but... With the hedges that lined the road blocking his sight he wasn't able to get a good view of what was going on until he reached the village itself, although once he came to the houses he approached with more caution. The streets were deserted, all the doors and windows shut up tight. He followed the noises of fighting towards the inn – and there it was. Tall figures in armour – at least, taller than hobbits, but not tall enough to be Men – were fighting the orcs, and unmoving bodies were lying all around. He caught a glimpse of Kolb in amongst the orcish side, although there was no sign of his big wolf-creature. The strangers bore a banner above them, but it was no device upon it that Hamfast had ever seen before. 

Suddenly a shadow passed over him, moving too quickly to be any cloud. There was a sound that split the air, like a roll upon the biggest drums that ever existed, or the blast of a horn the size of a house. Hamfast looked up, ducking further into the cover of an unattended and wild-growing garden, and saw something vast against the sun. He had the impression of massive wings like tents. Then the earth shook as a creature – a _dragon! -_ landed in the street outside the inn. It was at least as big as the building it stood in front of, and it lowered its head and let loose another of those violent bellows that he could feel vibrating in his chest. 

The two sides broke apart. The strangers retreated backwards with measured steps, without any sign of surprise. The orcs seemed to take stock of the situation, and then one after the other and in a great rush they took a knee and bowed their heads, letting their weapons fall to the ground. 

The dragon snorted... and then it spoke! It said something in the language of the orcs, and Hamfast found himself surprisingly relieved when it was Kolb that stood to answer it. Words he did not understand flew back and forth. It seemed to be some sort of argument. It did not seem good sense to argue with a dragon, but then if orcs were sensible creatures they would have come to the Shire with words rather than weapons, and simply asked for food, rather than offering the threat of violence. It was Kolb's fault it he was eaten. But it seemed the dragon _was_ sensible, because it settled down with the patience of a fine debater to insist upon its point, whatever that might be. 

Hamfast wondered if he ought to leave. He could play no part here, and did not even comprehend anything of the situation. But if he moved he might be seen, and he didn't want the attention of any of these creatures on him. No, better to wait and see how things turned out, and go home when it was over. He wriggled into a more comfortable position amongst the bushes and setted in to watch. 

Before long some sort of agreement must have been settled on, for the orcs all got up and went back inside the inn. The strangers and the dragon waited outside while one by one they came back outside with full packs, strapped their weapons onto their persons, and finally set off away down the north-road in a long column. Hamfast could barely believe his eyes. They were leaving? What now then? Were these new creatures to be their new masters? Had they come here bent on conquest? But no, now they seemed to be following the orcs, marching off at a distance. The dragon took to the air with a violent beat of its massive wings. 

Once they had all gone out of sight of the village, Hamfast scrambled out of hiding, wiping dirt from his trousers. Well! How strange this all was. What was he to do now?

\----

Galadriel examined the letter Haldir had brought her. It was coarse parchment from Rohan, but the hand was elegant and she could find no fault with the Quenya. It might have been written by an elf, and that was sufficient proof to confirm its author's claim of his identity, even had he not left a Dúnedain cloak-pin by the fire as well. Many of the Dúnedain spoke Quenya, but none like a native except for this one. Aragorn, son of Arathorn, raised in Imladris. 

It would do no good to order her march-wardens to chase after the boy now. He was too canny to be caught easily after so long. Her first thought had been to speak with Elrond through Nenya and her mirror's waters, but he had equally pressing concerns in supporting the Dúnedain in their struggle against the Enemy's invasion from Angmar. It would have been better to put the matter to Olórin, who after all was Curunír's kin. Yet neither was he easily reached, and Minas Tirith was too many days ride from Lothlórien or Isengard for him to reach her in time. This news required swift action. 

Another might have doubted such news as this, come in secrecy from one who had disappeared and thus whose character could not be judged. But Galadriel had ever been suspicious of Curunír. All things may not have been as the boy had interpreted them, but if his eyes had seen true even the slightest part of what he had written, then this deemed immediate investigation. There was no-one else. She would have to do this herself. 

It was in some ways foolish, this she accepted. The Istari had been limited by the Valar before being sent to Arda and she was old indeed and powerful besides, the more so with the Ring she bore. If it were merely between the two of them, she would easily count herself the victor. But this promised an army of Orcs and Men joined under the banner of the White Hand, and she was not prideful enough to think herself the match for thousands. Alas, she was left with little choice. She had sent a battalion of her own over the pass of Caradhras in the summer to aid Elrond. She could not further empty the forest to take her own force with her. This was her own burden to bear as a member of the White Council, and through strength and wit she would master it.

\----

Carn Dûm was burning. Dragon-flame crackled over snow-chilled stone and sank its Maia-sung teeth deep. Rock melted and fell like rain. The battle was raging fierce in the city below, but Bilbo paid it little heed. Bolg was a more than able commander, trained well by his sire Azog, and seeing Gods in the sky, most of the fight had gone out of their enemy. As the curtain walls fell, Raumo and Calarus bellowed triumph, and a call to summon their troops to the breach. With Heren willing to allow Bilbo upon her back, he had no need for passage through the wall, but Khamûl, Bard and Dain did, with their hand-picked phalanx behind them. 

Wind curling under her wings, Heren banked and came in low over the wall with flame in her wake, low enough for him to leap down to the flat open courtyard within, swarming with Angmar's orcs. The Ring was burning in his veins, crackling power over his skin. He wore the armour that Thorin had forged for him, and its dark metal wrapped shadows around himself. The orcs drew back before him, and a wave of his hand sent a blow through the air that tossed a score of them aside and made a path towards the fortress. He was not gentle; his rage left little room for it. 

“Angmar!” he screamed, voice bellowing vast as the dragon of his name with the Ring's song behind it. _Punish him,_ it whispered to him. _Destroy him! Faithless servant!_ Joined in singular purpose and fury they were together Kulkodar in truth. 

_“Angmar! Come forth and face us, if we are not your God and Master!”_

He could feel the centre of the Nazgûl's power here, behind the high and warded doors. Much magic had gone into the singing of this place, but it was magnified from the magic of Men and the merest shadow of Mairon's borrowed power. No match for what had come. Kulkodar tore through the iron with claws of flame and through into the hall beyond. Angmar was waiting. 

The wraith was wearing the body of an orc like a tattered cloak. His mind, his will, his malice, they were visible there beneath the surface like oil in water. Corpse-eyes glowed green with cold fire. 

“Have you come to make me bow?” Angmar sneered. His sword was in the orc's hand – a vicious morgul-blade imbued with death. 

“ _No,”_ Kulkodar answered. _“We have come to kill you.”_

“You know the consequences if you do!”

“ _The Shire has been taken from you, or have you not heard_?” 

Angmar smiled, a horrible fang-baring rictus on the orc's face. “There shall be more than just that. I know Khamûl will have told you.”

The weakening of the song. Eventual dissolution and true death of the Nazgûl if a replacement was not found for their number. That was a problem it could not be too hard to solve. Angmar was looking for any threat to stay their hand. 

_“We do not care.”_  
  
And the power of the Ring burst forth, a conflagration that burned through the link down to Angmar's ring and reduced the wraith to ashes.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As promised to certain of my readers, since it looks unlikely I'll ever finish this the traditional way, have a summary of the rest of the plot of this fic, in bullet-point form. Bullet-fic, if you will.

2956:

  * Having received Aragorn’s letter, Galadriel takes one of the wild horses roaming the wetlands north of Lothlorien and rides hard for Orthanc, needing to see the truth of his words for herself. Coming upon the land scarred by Saruman/Curunir’s industry, she cannot mistake what he is doing, but she has known him for many thousands of years. He is one of the Maiar. She feels that she must confront him and learn the intent behind his seemingly malevolent actions. This confrontation does not go well for either party. Bolstered by his marginally-successful attempts to forge a Ring, Saruman is able to match her power - the more so because so much of Nenya’s strength remains guarding the realm of Lothlorien against shadow. 
  * Unlike with Gandalf however, Galadriel is able to flee the tower, her heart broken by what her compatriot has become. She returns to Lothlorien, sending messengers forth to the other members of the White Council with this fell news. She vows to do what she can to work against Curunir’s treacheries, while at the same time knowing she must hoard her realm’s strength for the battle against Kulkodar.
  * Continuing his journey with Burguul, Strider heads up into the Misty Mountains. They settle there for some time with an orc-clan, and Strider learns more of orcish culture and religion. He also hears the tales of the new God in the Lonely Mountain, the one called Kulkodar. He attempts to find out as much as he can, but wonders how much of what he learns has been filtered through religion, and how much is real. 
  * In the aftermath of Angmar’s destruction, Bilbo chooses not to return to Erebor just yet. He is feeling guilty about what has happened to the Shire, and feels the need to go there for himself and see if anything can be done to repair the damage to the country. 
  * It becomes apparent that when the orcish army invaded, most of the population of the Eastfarthing and Buckland regions fled into the Old Forest, and none of them have been seen since. It was their abandoned houses, farms and lands which the orcs took over for their own needs, and where Hamfast had been working. Bilbo ventures into the Forest with a few hobbits, and is confronted by Tom Bombadil, a strange, fey and powerful force to his Ring-augmented senses. Bombadil states that these hobbits are under his protection now, and there they will remain by their own choice. Several of these halflings can be seen lurking in the woods around them - they too seem altered, made wild and fey. 
  * Bilbo leaves Turcosu in the Shire to set up the first Dragon-Court, using the dwarvish model. He hopes this will prevent any orcish stragglers who haven’t heard of their master’s destruction from causing trouble as well. 



2957:

  * Small time skip. After a year with the orc tribe, Strider’s wanderlust is taking hold again. Having become close friends with him, Burguul decides they will follow, and the two head south. Word reaches their ears that war has broken out with Umbar - all part of Mairon/Sauron’s promise to Ar-Azruzagar. Feeling some kind of responsibility to the nation Elrond would have had him rule, as well as curiosity about Gondor in general, Strider takes the name Thorongil in order to sell his sword as a mercenary in the war. This is now under Steward Ecthelion II, Turgon having died in 2953. Burguul travels to Ithilien, intending to bring back information on Sauron’s designs. 
  * In Erebor the mountain is thriving, as is Dale. Gloin is finding it harder to maintain the morale of his rebels, but there are still enough die hards for them to cause problems for Bilbo and Thorin. Word of the Umbarian war is reported by Adunaphel, which rouses Kulkodar’s wrath. His aim, after all, is to eventually stop all war, and it grates on him that this is too far away for him to act. Besides, it’s proof that Sauron is starting to act aggressively as well. 



2960:

  * Strider/Thorongil becomes well-regarded in Gondor, as in canon, due to his strategic, tactical, and martial prowess. Helpful knowledge whispered by an orcish spy does not go amiss either. He makes an enemy of the Steward’s son Denethor, who resents a mercenary receiving such accolades when his only true loyalty is coin.
  * Things in Arnor have mostly returned to normal. The Rangers return to the search for Aragorn, with little luck, but begin to range outside of Arnor itself in doing so. They avoid the Shire altogether now, due to its draconic resident. Arwen leaves Lindon, where she had been weathering the war, and rejoins the search for Aragorn.



2968:

  * Further timeskips. Bilbo/Kulkodar reflects on the state of things and wonders why the White Council hasn’t struck against them yet. The Ring assures him that elves think on long timescales, and will wait a hundred years if that is what it takes to build their armies to the peak of their abilities. Things are generally peaceful in the lands under Kulkodar’s aegis, however he is aware that the Nazgul are not feeling as strong as they once did - Angmar’s absence is starting to be felt. Bilbo studies with Thorin how to create the Rings of Power, knowing he will have to make his own replacement for Angmar’s. 



2978:

  * War between Gondor and Umbar ends with Umbar’s defeat. Feeling somewhat at a loss for what to do with himself, Strider takes his earnings and returns to the White Mountains, where the orclings from Burguul’s original tribe live, knowing their priests and seers often have access to more information about Arda than they really ought to. 
  * In Erebor, the Nazgul are growing weaker now that they are only Eight. Gloin and his rebels take the chance to strike against the Nazgul. Working with several runesmiths, they have devised inscribed circles that serve to trap the Nazgul within, cut off from the others. Weakened by the loss of Angmar, several wraiths are caught, seeming to simply… go missing. The areas where they are trapped are sealed off by skilled stonemasons. 
  * Bilbo, in panic and wrath which is as much his own as the Ring’s, near tears Erebor apart looking for the missing Nazgul. He knows they have been affected by losing Angmar - even he himself has been somewhat affected - and now he worries he may have failed to act in time to save them. Is this malice, or is it the consequences of their Song coming undone? 
  * Gloating, Gloin and his rebels move on to the next phase of their ambitious plan. With Kulkodar weakened and distracted, they are able to stage an ambush using rune-craft and force of arms combined. Their aim is not to kill Bilbo - simply to separate him from the Ring. Much as with Sauron and Isildur, cutting the Ring from its owner’s hand is enough to break their bond. The dwarves take flight with the Ring, seeking only to escape and get it as far away as possible, their families in tow.
  * Bilbo has spent enough time as the Ring’s willing master that he has begun to take on some of the qualities of the Maiar who forged it, and to become something more than a mortal being. He maintains his physical body - unlike Mairon who lost his in Numenor’s drowning - and some of his powers, but he is much reduced. After some time the missing wraiths are located and freed, then with the help of the dragons a great search is organised to track down the traitors and retrieve the Ring. 
  * The Ring itself wishes to return to its master - the master who treated it better than the one it had before, and which it anyway perceives as having the greater chance of world domination at the present time. Under its influence the dwarves soon fall to infighting. Gimli, regretting coming with his father who seems now to have almost lost his mind, takes the ring and runs, hoping to find someone who can tell him what to do with it. He is too afraid of what might happen to return to Erebor, but thinks of making it to Ered Luin instead.



2990:

  * In the years since the stealing of the Ring, Bilbo has tried to prevent any news of this spreading, keeping close council. The search continues. He is aware of the Ring - some tenuous link is still maintained - but it isn’t enough to sense its location. Knowing it likely the thieves may cross paths with members of the White Council, Sauron’s minions, or the Elves, Bilbo sends out the dragons to keep watch over various key locations - not close enough to provoke a war, but enough to make everyone wary. 
  * In the Shire, a young Frodo Baggins, born of the Fey-Hobbits, ventures out of the Old Forest into the farmlands of Buckland where he meets the young son of Hamfast Gamgee (now Mayor round those parts). Seeing that Shire-life calls him, Frodo’s parents arrange for him to leave the Old Forest for good, and he fosters with Hamfast.
  * In the White Mountains, Strider and Burguul hear that so far the White Council doesn’t seem to have done anything about Saruman or his control over Rohan. Together, they begin to plot some way of foiling the schemes of the White Wizard.
  * Dwarves have begun to notice in Erebor that King Thorin doesn’t appear to be aging. A little glad he won’t be asked to take up any kind of leadership role anytime soon, Kili sets off on another expedition to Moria, taking the dragon Calarus with him. They wish to improve relations with the orcish kingdom, and in the end Kili manages to broker a trade route between Moria and Erebor, as well as the possibility of safe passage through the Misty Mountains for travellers coming from Ered Luin. 



3001:

  * Gimli has been bearing the Ring for a long while, resisting the urge at every turn to use it more than he has to. Occasionally its power of invisibility is too useful, and he must, but he can feel it wearing and draining on him. Too afraid to cross the Misty Mountains, and narrowly escaping capture in Rohan, he finds himself stuck in the wilds of the west, and spends some years in Fangorn Forest, desperately hiding, trying to think of what to do. Eventually he gathers his courage and makes it through Rohan, heading again for Ered Luin. On the way he passes through the Shire, and realises the land’s connection with Kulkodar. 
  * Having searched Rohan and Gondor and found little concrete sign of Aragorn, Arwen returns to Arnor demoralised. She meets up with the Rangers and hears from them of the dragons now sitting in residence in the Shire, outside Lindon, and outside Imladris. The Rangers have a plan to try and ambush the dragons, much as they had been doing with the orcs during the war with Angmar. Hoping to help, Arwen joins a small group of them travelling in secret to the Shire. 
  * Paths collide in the Eastfarthing, where Hamfast Gamgee takes in a number of weary travellers to his hall. There Gimli and Arwen run into one another - both of them with at least some motivation of trying to find some secret of Kulkodar’s origin or people that might be used against him. Both are immediately distrusting of each other, but then Arwen senses the presence of the Ring in Gimli’s possession. 
  * Arwen cannot risk trying to take the Ring, or take Gimli captive given her mission and where she is. Instead she manages to take advantage of his fear and weariness, and persuades him to see her father Elrond, who will surely know what to do with the evil object. Besides, surely Gimli can at least trust that the Elves will not _use_ it? 
  * Arwen and Gimli set off, however are unaware they are being followed by Frodo Baggins and Sam Gamgee, who happened to overhear their quiet conversation. 
  * Arwen and Gimli manage to slip past the dragon Heren, who is guarding the road in and out of Imladris. However another traveller is not so lucky, and the pair watch from cover as the hapless man is questioned fiercely on his intentions with the Elves. The Gondorian, Boromir son of the Steward Denethor, explains that his 18 year old younger brother Faramir had a vision of travelling north to find knowledge. Denethor would have permitted Faramir to go, but Boromir insisted his brother was yet too young to travel so far in dangerous times like these. Thus, here he is. The explanation seems to satisfy the dragon, who allows him to pass. 
  * Once in Imladris, Elrond is alarmed indeed that they have brought him the One Ring. He calls a council to discuss this with Glorfindel, Arwen, and Boromir (who has spoken of his brother’s vision). Galadriel and Gandalf are also present via the link of their rings to Elrond’s Vilya. Gimli haltingly tells the tale of how the One was taken from Kulkodar, and confesses he has not the slightest idea what to do with it. Elrond has only one answer - that it must be destroyed. He hopes that if they can provoke outright war between Sauron and Kulkodar, this will empty the land of Mordor and provide safe passage to Orodruin. 
  * Hidden by magics he learned from Bombadil, Frodo is able to remain hidden and watch all that unfolds. Less able to conceal himself however, Sam Gamgee is caught by the elves and pulled up before the council. They are wary, thinking he might be some spy of Kulkodar’s, but Sam’s honest nature reassures them. Elrond is impressed by the fact that he managed to make it into Imladris without being spotted before now, and suggests he might be of some use in their Quest. 
  * Thus a party is gathered; Gimli, Sam, Boromir, Glorfindel and Arwen. Gandalf promises to meet them at the western border of Rohan and escort them through that land - taking care to avoid Saruman’s malice - to Lothlorien, where Galadriel will equip them to journey down the Anduin towards Mordor. 
  * During the council, Kulkodar was discussed, as was his true name - Bilbo Baggins. Frodo doesn’t miss this, and he recalls the stories his ‘Uncle Hamfast’ told him about ‘Mad Baggins’ who went off and died on an adventure. He is keen to find out more about this relation - if indeed they are the same person. He follows on behind the party - meeting up with Sam in the dead of night to discuss what is going on and what they ought to do. 
  * In the White Mountains, Strider and Burguul have managed to ally the various orc-clans to their cause. All are as horrified as Burguul was to hear what Curunir is up to. Knowing their strength is not enough to face both Rohan and Curunir’s uruk-hai army, the pair set out on a stealthy journey to the Misty Mountains to try and forge further alliances with orcs there - intending an eventual double invasion of the Gap of Rohan. They are advised to speak to the God beneath the Mountains, who will no doubt want to know of this great blasphemy. Curious and nervous to meet one of the creatures the orcs revere as a deity, Strider agrees. 
  * In Moria, Strider and Burguul are surprised to find a mixed dwarvish and orcish economy. Over the years historic tensions between the races have begun to ease, at least in the younger or more open-minded members of both species. Here they learn more of Kulkodar, and are invited to meet with the Gods Calarus and Mazat, who approve of their intentions, seeing them as just. 
  * Things move quickly after that, with Calarus taking his leave to take word back to the White Mountains, and before long the planned war has begun. With Strider’s strategic acumen to lead them, and both Calarus and Ancalagon now barricading Saruman/Curunir himself in Orthanc, the unsuspecting Rohirrim are taken by surprise. There is very little looting, burning and pillaging of the countryside, by Strider’s orders - backed by the authority of Gods - merely taking tactical objectives. Then it’s a matter of siegecraft against Orthanc - whose stone is proof even against dragonfire. 
  * Into this mess of war stumbles the Fellowship of the Ring. They cannot go unnoticed for long, and are set upon by orcs looking to take prisoners. Boromir, Sam and Arwen are captured - Gimli, Gandalf and Glorfindel manage to escape, and take refuge in Gimli’s old hideaway of Fangorn Forest. The three captives are brought before what they believe to be orcish warlords - until one is revealed to in fact be human. None have any reason to recognise Strider, but he recognises Arwen from pictures in Imladris. 
  * Little thought is given to Boromir and Sam. Arwen - an elf, and one who might still be looking for Aragorn - is the real threat here. She refuses to bow to questioning from Strider or Burguul, but when they turn on her allies in frustration, Sam is a far easier nut to crack - the more so because his sympathies are not entirely with the Fellowship. 
  * Strider and Burguul know their history - they know what a Ring which must be taken to Mordor means. Word is quickly passed to Calarus - and from him to Kulkodar. The dragon leaves on an errand for Kulkodar shortly after.
  * Their three prisoners cannot be permitted to go free, and Strider worries that Arwen might escape - or might be killed by angry orcs - if she does not remain under his personal guard. Thus, the three are taken with them as Strider uses his Ranger skills to track the trail of the other members of the Fellowship. 
  * Arwen begins to be suspicious when she sees that this orc-loving human tracks like a Dunedain. When she sees Strider remove his gloves to eat that night, and spies the Ring of Barahir on his hand - kept all these years as a gift from his mother without ever knowing its meaning - she realises just who this is, and cannot help from exclaiming in horror at what has become of him. She confronts him and accuses him of abandoning his people, and a fierce argument ensues. Boromir at first does not believe what he is hearing either, but is almost reassured by how little Strider wants to rule Gondor. Still, it feels strange to see what the blood of Numenor has sunk to. He objects when Arwen tries to use him as a point in her argument, and Strider is very surprised to learn he has captured the Steward of Gondor’s heir. 
  * Watching his chiefest enemies through the Palantir, this conversation does not go unmarked by Sauron and Saruman either. Having ordered his remaining uruk-hai to dig a tunnel out past the walls of Orthanc, Saruman and his orcs follow the trail on their end as well. 
  * A confrontation in Fangorn ensues. Saruman faces off against Gandalf and Glorfindel. The uruk-hai fight Strider, Burguul and his party. While everyone else is distracted, Frodo frees Sam from his bonds and both of them manage to find Gimli, who has been trying to run under cover of invisibility. This is not enough to outwit senses used to the deception of beings within Tom Bombadil’s forest however, and the two hobbits manage to find him and take back the Ring. 
  * The battle is brought to an abrupt close by the noise of wings and the arrival of Calarus, Ancalagon and Mazat, who take on the other Maiar. Glorfindel does not fare so well against a Balrog on _this_ occasion. Saruman and Gandalf are stripped of their bodies, their spirits returned to the Valar. Glorfindel is slain. Mazat is gravely wounded, but survives. 
  * In the midst of the fighting Boromir is struck by a number of arrows. Guilty at bringing him into this situation, Strider rushes to his side once the uruk-hai are dead and tries to administer first aid. In the aftermath, when Boromir is just clinging to life, Calarus comes forward with an offer. He presents Boromir with a Ring - one he freely admits he was going to offer to Strider/Aragorn - and tells him what will happen when he takes it up. Or at least, he tells the sanitised version. At Strider’s urging, Boromir accepts. 
  * Frodo and Sam are happy enough to take the Ring to Bilbo/Kulkodar, but insist on doing so themselves. They refuse to give it up to the dragons or anyone else. Thus, everyone remaining alive travels north on dragonback to Erebor, where Bilbo is as delighted to meet his previously unknown cousin as he is to have the One Ring returned to him. 
  * Given that Boromir - future Steward of Gondor - is now one of the Nazgul, Bilbo is happy to let Gondor alone and turn all his efforts to defeating Mordor. With Rohan also out of the way, and two of the White Council dead, he feels he has little to fear from them anyway. Thus, war, on a grand scale, with the might of dragons, orcs, dwarves and men behind him. 
  * In the end, Sauron is struck down, although with the Ring still in existence he can never be truly destroyed. Instead he is bound to the ruins of his tower, with Ancalagon and Glaurung set to watch over the land and prevent him seeking power as Angmar did. 
  * Thus Bilbo becomes Lord of Middle Earth, and achieves the goal he once promised Smaug. 



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone wants to write their versions of any of the scenes described above, feel free.


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